The Fight

He says he knows me too well.

When I threaten to leave, he just waits.

I storm off. But he doesn't follow me. He doesn't seem upset that I'm leaving.

Hmm. This is not going the way that I planned.

I stall. Play with the cat. Go back inside under the pretense of getting my coat.

We fight some more. I threaten to leave again.

This time, I only make it as far as the coat closet. I linger there, waiting. He doesn't come out.

Obviously he doesn't love me at all. He doesn't even care if I leave.

And if I leave, I am not taking my phone. So take that. I will make sure he does not have a way to get hold of me.

He comes out. We fight more. I'm even more upset because it appears he does not care about if I leave or not. Does he want our day to be ruined?

(I know, it sounds so silly now.)

Finally, he tells me he knows me too well. He knew I wasn't going to leave. He knew I was bluffing. Apparently, I always threaten to leave once or twice before I get up the guts to storm out.

Hmph. He seems to have my number. Am I really that obvious? I don't care. I'm going to remain expressionless and not admit guilt.

This makes me even madder. Now I really have to leave! He's called my bluff, upped the ante. (Maybe I should play poker more often.)

I start to storm out. This time, I'm going.

Somehow, he knows it.

His hand shoots out. Grips me around the neck. Slams me back into the wall.

Tears run down my face. But I will not give in. I will not cry aloud.

"Do you like this?" he asks, not angrily. "Is this what you wanted? This is D/s. This is me telling you that you cannot go."

I do not answer. I am too stubborn. I shut my eyes, blocking him out. Tears run down my face. I think I might hate him. He has to let go of me eventually. I will leave then.

He takes my keys.

I do not utter a word of protest, but I am livid. I think quickly of a way to get around this.

He waits by the doorway for a long, long time, guarding it. I stand against the wall, eyeing him. He waits to see if I will make a break for it. I know there is no chance for me to make it with him right there, so I wait to see when he will move away.

He moves warily to the kitchen. I march to the back bedroom. Lock the door. Take that.

I remove his keys. Where do I put them? Obviously not in my pocket. Not in my coat pocket, either. Yet stuffing them in my bra or pants seems so juvenile. Even for me.

I settle on my back pocket.

I open the door. He is still in the kitchen. I walk, quickly but not running, down the hall. Make a beeline down the stairs and toward the door.

I am only halfway there when I hear him tearing behind me. Strong arms grab me. He obviously expects a fight, but I'm no fool---I can't overpower him. I do not resist as he jerks me roughly back toward the hallway.

"I knew you'd try to run," he says angrily. Hands pat my pockets. No keys.

He wraps his arms around me, half embrace and half hold. He puts his hands in my coat pockets (no keys there, either) and kisses my neck. "Why are you so angry?" he says.

Wordless, I start to walk toward the hallway, hoping he'll think I've given up.

Hands pat my back pockets.

$*#&*!

He removes the keys. Puts them into his pocket. Starts to push me up the stairs.

"I'm going, I'm going!" I grumble.
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In the end, he doesn't let me leave. He persistently asks me what's wrong. Finally, I tell him. I tell him why I am so hurt and angry. And how I am so tired that it's hard to think straight. He nods and listens. We talk it out.

Later, he says, "I'm sorry if I was too rough with you. But I couldn't let you leave."

I am a little surprised. Too rough with me? If anything, I was the one who lost my temper. He stayed fairly calm throughout.

I shake my head. "You were fine." He did the right thing. He kept me here to talk it out instead of leaving and spending pointless hours alone, in silence. He saved the weekend so we could spend the rest of it as a family.

He was a leader.