My eyes look like red marbles peaking out of insect bites. When I cry, I really cry. It’s apparent. Dean and I got into a big fight last night. A fight that’s always about the same thing. The first night I moved in at the beginning of the summer, he invited several of his friends over at 2:30am when I was sound asleep in bed. We live in a studio apartment. They refused to leave. Dean and I got into a huge brawl. I almost ended it. We got therapy.
Every once in a while, it surfaces. Like when I see pictures of him hanging out with those friends. Cheese! They’re all smiles. I feel ill. How can my future husband continue hanging out with people who refused to leave when they saw me in my tank top and undies pleading with them to please get the fuck out. It makes me feel disrespected.
So last night, I brought it up and we fought again. From his perspective, why do I continue to bring it up? From my perspective, I don’t think I’ve ever fully forgiven him.
Today is our 6-month anniversary from the day that we met. Happy fucking anniversary.