Just had a nasty argument with Azim. Nasty is an understatement.

Sometimes I feel like HE is the girl in this relationship. A whiny one, at that. Whiny, temperamental, super-sensitive and moody. That’s Azim, the darker side. Or should I say, the feminine side.

Not to diss the man that I love but sometimes, when we argue and this dark, pinky side of him comes out, I just stand bewildered. Amazed. I mean, I’m the one with the menstrual rights to a tantrum but I try as much as possible not to exercise my rights. And he, with his testosterone and his patience and the fact that HE IS BORN A MALE, should be the commas to my exclamation marks. But ooohhh, Azim is a male born with a Mouth. A mouth with sharp laser guns embedded in his forked tongue. And a tendency to have a male period phase. Ooohh…the things he says when he is angry. It can really really hurt.

It wasn’t a shouting match. More of a verbal catfight, usually characterized by two hell-hath-no-fury scorned women in a dolby showdown. But here, on one side, we have Azim, cranky from his restless sleep to prepare for his London Heathrow night flight at 2.40am, considerably shortened supposedly by Raihan because of her apparent selfishness earlier that day and on the other side, we have Raihan, totally unaware that she caused much upheaval in Azim’s sleeping plans, innocently clad like Christmas in red seluar tido and a dark green baby-T, hair in two plaits and feet in red bedroom slippers.

What a sight it must have been, in the middle of the corridor of both our apartments. Telling each other to fuck off. Bitch. Bastard. Selfish. Cranky. Fuck you. Fuck me. Go to hell. Go to London and die. Asshole. Male bitch with a period (yeah, that came from me!!)

*Slam* His door.

*Slam* My door.

His door opens again and a loud and geraaammm "Take this back!"
I heard the box of daily contact lenses I gave him a few minutes ago, coz his have run out, come sliding down the smoothly tiled surface of the corridor.

I grab my keys, my wallet, my mobile and my current read and I slip on my sandals and went up to the pool to cleanse myself of this crushing aura.

When I came back downstairs after 45 minutes, he has left and the box of lenses are packed neatly back again and sitting on my dresser. He called an hour later on both my mobile and my home phone but I ignored it.

The time now is 2.59am. His plane would have already taken off to London Heathrow. Let him wallow in agony in London for all he has said to hurt me. Let him wash his mouth with guilt. Let him think about himself and his apparent talent at bitchiness. And let him think about me and how sorry he is and how he is going to make it up to me.

And let me sit here, and wish I kissed him before his London flight, like we always do before our trips.
Let me sit here and wait for him to come back.
Let me sit here and miss him.

I don’t know what happened, how it happened and what I did to make it happen.
But honey, I’m sorry.
And honey, I love you.
Just stop having your periods. I can’t handle it. I can’t even handle mine.