The other day, E.S. and I were watching the dreadful American version of What Not to Wear and got into an argument over what country Nick Arrojo was from. I leapt out of bed, slipping like an eel out of E.S.’s grasp, to go look it up online, at which point he made a noise of frustration somewhere between a sigh and a snort. “Why do you always have to win?” he asked.
I stared at him, agape. “How can you have known me for more than three seconds and ask me that?”
“You just always have to win, and I want to know why.”
“Do you also want to know why I have to breathe? Do you want to know why I am a carbon-based life form? Or why I have two legs?”
How can I be dating someone who doesn’t understand me at all?