You know?

"I guess I should just be better at pretending nothing is wrong," the husband says.  My jaw clenches and my nostrils flare as I wonder if he is actually serious.  He is.  I try not to scoff, and work my annoyance into the dead space between us, wanting to strangle words out of him with my silence.  But he could sit there, sullen in the silence forever.  I can't.

It's the eve of Christmas eve and we just spent the evening trying to forget about our unresolved conflict that occured on the way to a lovely extended family party.  Scratch that.  I just spent the evening trying to forget.  For the husband, it's already water under the bridge: he's already let himself float downstream.  What a gift.  But I just can't let it pass.  I feel like I'm swimming upstream, and the distance between is increasing.  I just have to get back into our flow. 

I know he's frustrated with me.  He knows I know.  I always tell him what I think I know, something like, "You seem like you're angry with me for washing my hair, and taking extra time that made us late..."  He rarely admits to what I think I know, even though my wonderboy instincts always know.

"We don't communicate through conflicts well," I say.  "I think we communicate just fine," he says.  "Yes, I guess not talking is a form of communication...a lousy one" I say, trying to pick a fight.  I'm so rude, but at this point I'm desperate to get a conversation started.  "It just doesn't do any good to tell you what I'm thinking when I'm angry," he says.  "It's better than leaving it to my imagination, right?" I say.  He considers my imagination for a moment.  And then the husband grins.  He nodds.  He knows.  

We talk.  We review.  I air out my feelings.  He shares a few of his.  And, then somehow it doesn't matter what I knew.  And even if I don't really know, he knows that whatever I think I know is inevitably worse that whatever I don't know.  And, now we know.