The Architecture of a Lie

Her ex keeps calling.

Every single time, the fight explodes. Every single time, she stands there, vibrating with that terrifying, white-hot temper, and finally spits out a promise to block his number. And she does. I watch her press the button. The digital door slams shut.

But it’s a revolving door. Because hours later, days later, when the air has settled and the silence returns, she unblocks him.

What the actual fuck is this shit? She blocks him, she unblocks him. She promises, and then she breaks the promise like it’s a completely arbitrary social convention she never consented to.

And then the architecture of the lie really begins. She tries to hide it. The blatant, in-your-face calls stop, but her entire physical demeanor changes. She becomes incredibly secretive with her phone, angling the screen away, her posture rigid. On the days when her mood is inexplicably, violently fucked up for no apparent external reason, I already know. The paranoia sits heavy in the back of my throat because I know something is up.

So I look. And I find out that she talked to him—that same rotting ghost of an ex-boyfriend—and then meticulously deleted the entire chat history to hide it from me.

Is she evil? Is she profoundly, clinically retarded? Or is she some horrifying combination of the two? I am staring at the ceiling, losing my absolute mind, trying to map the logic of someone who actively builds a cage and then complains about the cold.

But here is the sickening, humiliating truth of this entire arrangement.

On the rest of the days, the sex is incredible. The sex is good. The sex is exceptionally good after these screaming, exhausting fights, too. It operates like some kind of manic makeup sex. We scream at each other until the air is entirely devoid of oxygen, until I am convinced the relationship is a fatal disease, and then we collapse into bed.

==And for a few hours, the ghost is gone.==