“i’m sorry.”
it may as well be his mantra he repeats it with such frequency. she hates it. it totally beguiles her.
“why? you have nothing to be sorry about.”
where other people habitually light a cigarette, or collapse into sleep after sex, he goes on a apologizing jag, then gets sullen and quiet like he’s twelve and just got caught playing with himself in the bathtub. she can’t begin to understand. result of some earlier trial and evident error? she pets him, kisses his shoulder.
“don’t apologize ok? you don’t need to.”

he usually molds his self hatred into a more palatable self depreciating humor, gruff and curmudgeonly but ok for public consumption. after sex though, it’s another story all together. he is totally bare. he’s like a skeleton in a cold wind. he stares at the floor or off into space, not a shred of funny on him.
“yeah.” he snorts and closes his eyes.
it’s hard for her. she can’t seem to help him and can’t get him to stop. his apparent joylessness scares her and pisses her off alternately. “does he even like me?” or “what the fuck is his problem?” neither one a nice post-coital sentiment to come away with. as the months in his bed have rolled by she’s started to visualize them in her mind as sheets peeling away from a desk calendar.
“you want some strawberries? i want some.” she attempts, sweetly upbeat. but no answer.
she’s responded in different ways, testing the waters to ascertain how best to pull him from the undertow. initially, in their first month, she would try to address it head on, pushing a bit to better understand his reasons. she’d say something forthright but good natured. “it’s all mind games babe, you’re doing this to yourself, i had a great time.” he’d only become indignant, shifting the direction of his anger with surprising ease, sneering, “thanks for that assessment dr. freud.” later she tried preemption, telling him it was “great” and “amazing” before he had a chance to slip into his funk. she’d be rewarded with a tirade about not patronizing him. there was no winning and no helping. she got up, the strawberries wouldn’t wash themselves.
“so do you want some, or not?”
“whatever.”
she stops and just she stands over him, looks at him. looks at his greasy hair, his slumped shoulders. she wants to smack him, scratch his face. “asshole!” she thinks. “what a fucking jerk. what am i doing here?” he looks sour faced, crumpled, pathetic. he is either unaware or just uninterested in the poison he spreads.
“whatever?”
she realizes suddenly that this is him. this spiteful, childish, behind-closed-doors personality is the real one. this is the person she has been fucking these last months. this is the person she’s cooked meals for, whose
toothbrush is next to hers, who she shares a towels with. the funny, confident guy she met at the japanese bookstore is not hers, he exists only for strangers and acquaintances. it is this surly lump who is her boyfriend. the lump looks up at her. he is red faced, sad.
“listen, you have to stop doing this. you have to stop apologizing every time. it’s ridiculous. do you understand? it’s beyond baggage. it’s beyond performance anxiety. ok? you HAVE to stop acting like this or we’re going to stop fucking. and then what? it’s no fun.”
he does not look away. does not answer. just keeps looking at her.
“you have to just relax. i want to have fun. i want us to have fun, like normal people.”
he’s silent but it’s plain she’s gotten through. his eyes soften. he looks away. she feels better, having said it, getting it off her chest without having to resort to threats. without having to pack any bags.
“honey?” she wants a response. needs one.
he grabs her around the calves, looking sheepish. embarrassed at the truth of it no doubt. the room’s small. their shared collection of books rising above the low shelves and stacked high in corners. her cosmetics are piled on the windowsill. his stinky gym clothes are scattered by her feet.
“your right. of course your right. i’m sorry.”