Frequently while I’m reading, a sentence grabs me and forces me to stop. I pay tribute to other authors by sharing their Damn Fine Sentences with you. Then I recount a memory the words bring up for me. It’s about how books connect with your life.I spent the early years of marriage with my arms crossed.
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“How humans decide what to do with their arms on a second-by-second basis, I still have no idea.”
———Martha Wells
——--The Murderbot Diaries: Exit Strategy
I took it personally, Ben’s loyalty to plastic bags over reusables. I was insulted if he wanted to watch a different movie than the one I chose. I was offended by the way he loaded the dishwasher—especially the bowls—while he insisted my way made no sense. We each re-arranged the dishes, when the other wasn’t around.
Threatened by every conflict, I assigned sinister motives to my husband. He was guilty of grabbing power; therefore, my safety depended on bulletproof defenses. Our marriage devolved into a stalemate, trust replaced by mutually assured destruction.
Ben got to the kitchen before me, and started up the dishwasher, but as soon as he left, I opened its door to rearrange the bowls. Heat singed my face, and the dishes disappeared behind a cloud of steam that fogged my glasses. As the mist evaporated, as my vision cleared, the contents of the dishwasher gradually reappeared, and I saw those bowls for the first time.
Ben was innocent.
He loaded the dishwasher the way he did, because he’d been raised by his mother, not by mine.
At that second, I disarmed.
#####
“How humans decide what to do with their arms on a second-by-second basis, I still have no idea.”
———Martha Wells
——--The Murderbot Diaries: Exit Strategy
I took it personally, Ben’s loyalty to plastic bags over reusables. I was insulted if he wanted to watch a different movie than the one I chose. I was offended by the way he loaded the dishwasher—especially the bowls—while he insisted my way made no sense. We each re-arranged the dishes, when the other wasn’t around.
Threatened by every conflict, I assigned sinister motives to my husband. He was guilty of grabbing power; therefore, my safety depended on bulletproof defenses. Our marriage devolved into a stalemate, trust replaced by mutually assured destruction.
Ben got to the kitchen before me, and started up the dishwasher, but as soon as he left, I opened its door to rearrange the bowls. Heat singed my face, and the dishes disappeared behind a cloud of steam that fogged my glasses. As the mist evaporated, as my vision cleared, the contents of the dishwasher gradually reappeared, and I saw those bowls for the first time.
Ben was innocent.
He loaded the dishwasher the way he did, because he’d been raised by his mother, not by mine.
At that second, I disarmed.
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