With a hefty sigh you fell into the swivel chair. It swung around to face the computer, and you forced yourself to begin the essay you had been avoiding for hours. Your fingers hovered briefly over the keyboard, your mind in another place.

A key scraped at the door, and you heard the knob turn with a weighty creak. Even from the sound of his footsteps at the entryway you could tell his day had been no better than yours. He dropped his bag loudly on the hardwood floor and grumbled under his breath as he walked to the kitchen. You remained still, trying to begin your work with no avail.

“Oh. You’re here?” He turned the corner, eyes landing on you working slowly at the computer. Distracted, you didn’t respond. “You’re here?” he said, a bit louder and with a touch of irritation in his tired voice. You turned around, offering an exhausted smile in his direction.

“Hey. How was your day?” He sighed, sitting on the couch with a grimace.

“Don’t even ask.” He leaned back, his eyes toward the ceiling. “Less than fantastic.” You sighed in response, nodding your head. As you turned back to your work, a sigh escaped your lips.

“I know what you mean.” He scoffed lightly but you ignored it. Both of you were tired and tense, and an argument was the last thing you wanted this evening. A few passive minutes ticked by on the clock, and you tapped your pen in time with the seconds. Distracted and stressed, you subconsciously let your nervous habits amplify.

“Can you stop that? It’s really irritating.” His angry voice startled you, and you jumped slightly.

“Sorry.” You focused again on the essay, barely three sentences into the first paragraph. Something about the day and its events made it nearly impossible for you to find your focus. Turning in your chair, you looked at him with cautious eyes. He sat with his arms crossed, his head turned to glare at the blank paper next to him. His attention was obviously as fleeting as yours.

You spun your chair back around slowly, but your elbow knocked unintentionally against a glass sitting on the desk. Water splashed over your lap and tabletop, soaking the papers irreversibly and sending a light spray over the computer and keyboard. Your boyfriend jumped up, tossing the sweatshirt that was sitting next to him on the couch onto your computer.

“What the hell do you have a glass next to the computer for? What part of that seemed like a good idea?” Your brow furrowed, displeased with his tone. As he helped you to wipe the water he continued his loud castigation. “That was really stupid of you. You could have ruined the computer, and look at the mess you made! Why are you being so annoying today?”

This turned your irritation into serious hurt and anger. His fury seemed unjustified, and you rose from your chair with a piercing glare. You tossed the wet tissues you had been holding at his chest, and turned to walk back into your bedroom.

“I don’t see why you’re being so mean to me,” you said as you walked away. “I know you’ve had a bad day, but it’s time to get over yourself.” He was steaming, equally as hurt by your words as you had been by his.

“You’re one to talk. The world doesn’t revolve around you!” You turned around as you began to close the door, acknowledging his response with a contemptuous gaze.

“Don’t even go there.” You closed the door loudly, still reeling. You sighed, wishing a more clever response had crossed your mind as you hear him scoff quietly in the room you had left.

Dinner was awkward, a silent game of who could be the most disconnected from the other. He avoided eye contact, crossing his arms and staring distantly to the left when he was finished eating. You kept your gaze focused on your plate, mashing the food into patterns with the back of your fork. Eventually he sighed, leaning over the table to look at you.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. You ignored him, continuing to press your food over the plate. He reached forward, grabbing your wrist with his hand. “I’m really sorry. I think it’s my fault for snapping at you.”

“Yeah, whatever.” You were still cranky, not willing to forgive nor apologize for your own frustration. He looked in your eyes, regretful pleading reflected in his expression. You sighed, dropping the fork from your hand and returning his stare. “I’m sorry too.” You laughed quietly, looking again at your unfinished dinner. “It’s been a pretty awful day, hasn’t it?” He smiled, moving his grip from your wrist to your hand. His fingers traced over your palm, the touch warm and comforting.

“It really has. Want to watch a movie or something? I’m exhausted.” He stood up, taking your hand as if to lead you toward the living room. You nodded, following him with a smile. “I’ll do my best to make this day end happily.” You leaned over to him, pressing your lips against the smooth curve of his neck.

“I love you.”