Don’t Mince Words

Don’t mince words, she said to me, and unfortunately she was holding the butcher knife again. Whenever she was holding the butcher knife, I knew that I was in for a long night. There would be lots of arguing, lots of name-calling, sometimes possessions were thrown. An exhausting four to five hour affair that inevitably culminated in a round of pleasurable but exhausting make-up sex. I was worried the first few times I discovered her holding the butcher’s knife – who wouldn’t be? I worried she would attack me or seriously harm herself. But after the first few rounds with the knife, I learned to accept it for what it was. A cry for help, or a manipulation tactic. Sometimes it was both. Actually, scratch that – it was nearly always both of those things. 

I was mentally preparing myself for a long evening. And what’s more, I was already trying to come down from the long day I had been forced to endure at work. There had been lots of yelling, tense moments, and even tenser conversations at work today. Both with customers and with my fellow employees. I was not in the mood for this. 

Don’t mince words, she said again. She wasn’t shaking at all. Her hand was perfectly steady as she held the knife. I didn’t say anything, I said. All I did was come through the door. How could I mince words if I wasn’t saying anything to begin with. Don’t mince words, she said again sternly. Even with her apparent delirium, I still wasn’t concerned with her emotional and psychological well-being. She had pulled these kinds of stunts before, and it was always with the butcher knife. But she always started these kinds of evenings with the accusation of ‘Don’t mince words.’ She would say that over and over again, with her steady hand holding the butcher knife. Don’t mince words, don’t mince words, don’t mince words.

And sure enough, she was doing the same thing this evening. When I tried to communicate to her that I had not spoken at all, so therefore there were no conceivable words to mince, she continued to mutter, Don’t mince words. Don’t mince words.

Put the knife down, honey. I was used to the routine by now. It was playing out like clockwork. And I was feeling too tired to go through this whole song and dance this evening, even if it ended with sex. I just wasn’t feeling it tonight. It was like a play that I was forced to be a part of, and I knew all of the lines by heart, but I did not wish to be a part of the play. 

Put down the knife, honey, I said again. Say it with some enthusiasm, I told myself. Chastised myself, rather. My heart clearly wasn’t in it tonight. Say it with more feeling, my inner subconscious told me. Put down the knife, honey. Put down the knife, honey. No matter how many times I repeated this line out loud, and no matter how many times I repeated this line to myself, it just didn’t feel authentic. It didn’t feel like I actually cared. And that was probably because I did not actually care. And this, to me, seemed like a monumental problem. A problem for me, or a problem for our relationship? Maybe a little of both. 

You’re a heartless ugly bastard, you know that, she hissed. She was saying her lines perfectly. She not only knew her lines perfectly, inside and out, but she said them with genuine feeling. Whereas for me? I was doing alright remembering my lines, but I had no heart, no feeling in them, whatsoever. I was saying them robotically, and I knew it. And this was bothering me. So perhaps I did have some ounce of feeling within the depths of my being, after all. 

You’re a heartless ugly bastard, you know that, she said again. Like an actor waiting for the other actor to finally remember their line and spew it out. She gave me that look, the look that seemed to say, ‘Out with it, amateur.’ 

Oh yeah, now I remembered. I finally remembered my line. I’m just wanting to make sure that you’re okay. Oh yeah…yes. Perfect. I had remembered that line in the nick of time. That was almost embarrassing. That would have almost have caused a scene. Crisis averted. 

I’m just wanting to make sure you’re okay, I repeated. I was so close to embarrassment and dropping the ball. It seemed that Lady Luck was shining upon me, for I came through just fine. Phew. 

I’m just wanting to make sure you’re okay, I said once again, just for good measure. Just to make sure that I was still involved with the grand production. 

I’m going to kill myself, right now, and it will be all your fault, she said. She looked at me with those same eyes again, as if to say, ‘Don’t fumble with this line, too.’ As if to say, ‘We’re making ends meet here as it is.’ 

I rose to the occasion. I said, I want you here, babe. I said it again, louder this time. I want you here, babe. 

You always say that, she said. And I tried to hold back my irritation (or was it contempt), because I was thinking to myself, ‘Damn right I always say that. It’s in my contract as an actor in this horrid play’. 

I always say that because I care, I said. And I repeated it again for good measure. I always say that because I care. 

You don’t care about me, she said insistently. And she repeated it, too. You don’t care about me. You’ve never cared about me. 

I care about you more than you know, I said. And then I repeated it, too. I care about you more than you know. 

Prove it, she spat. Her hand was so steady holding that butcher knife, there. Her hand was always so steady. How was she always able to keep her hand so steady? It was a true commitment to the craft. Prove it, prove it, prove it. 

I was already anticipating the exhausting arguments, the exhausting name-calling, and the exhausting make-up sex, and I just didn’t want any part of it. No part of it at all. But I was doomed to play my part. 

Is this proof enough, I asked. I reached for the butcher knife and she held it away from me, like she had done countless times before. Like it was in the script. 

Is this proof enough, I said again, secretly hating myself. It was hard to keep my idiotic boss and my idiotic coworkers and the idiotic coworkers out of my mind as I was working myself through this whole song and dance. Is this proof enough, I said again, and swiped out for the butcher knife in her steady hand. On cue, she yanked her hand holding the butcher knife out of the way, holding it above her head. Come and get it, she said. Just come and get it. 

Is this proof enough, I repeated, and swiped over her head so that I could finally grasp her hand and wrench the butcher knife from her grasp. God, I hate my life, I thought to myself. I gotta get out of this relationship, I thought to myself. And once again, I thought to myself, God I hate my life. 

I eventually wrenched the stupid butcher knife from her grasp. We eventually had the arguing, and we eventually had the name calling, and she eventually threw a few of the fine China plates, and we eventually had make-up sex. And I hated every part of it, quite frankly. 

I hate my life in this relationship, I thought to myself post-coitus. I have to get out of this relationship, I thought to myself as we turned off the lights and were trying to go to sleep. I’m not happy in this relationship, I thought to myself as I was keeping my eyelids closed and trying to doze off. You gave another great performance, my inner subconscious told me. And on that note, I eventually fell asleep.