I knew a comfortable existence in the bounds of my relationship until, like a surge of rushing water, it was all swept away. I had tolerated the drizzle of negligent behavior for eight years, looking forward to the days were his disposition was sunny. Not to say mine hadn’t been glum that last year or two. I should have done the right thing and left.
Barely a fledgling out of my parents house, I meant Ronni my second semester of college. There was instant compatibility, the kind forged doing something you hate. Catharsis, I think it is called. The two of us shoveling out our cars after they had been covered by mountains of snow.
He saw me at my worst, cursing, flushed red skin, smudge mascara and a runny nose. I had my pajama bottoms shoved into a pair of tube socks from my years prior playing softball. Ronni had come to my defense, flipping the snow off as it continued to flutter down from thick grey skies. I went on to learn that when he got frustrated driving that it helped if I would join in his persistent cursing of the driver in front of him.