Fight Scenes Only
By Sweet Adeline (Adeline Swartzendruber)
I
I want
to write the kind of thing you would like — obvious, frank.
Like a child who says a bad word,
and hears some shocked laughter from the grown-ups,
I give the same performance on loop
until you are merely irritated.
I wrote a story —
about a fight with my ex. You said it was REAL
and you got to know me. I want
to be REAL. I want you to know me.
II
So I write another:
The man is petrified of blood.
This is perfectly fine,
and reasonable.
But then, an attempt at nobility aborted,
a knife in me; He tries to fuck me on
my period and is overwhelmed
by disgust and nausea halfway through —
If only he hadn’t done it at all —
Oh, but the people who hurt you most
are usually trying not to.
The man is infatuated
with violence. It is only this
victimless blood from which
he shrinks.
He gets me unfathomably drunk. He wants me pliable. He wants
to fuck me in the ass instead. Wasted,
hurt leaking out of me, I go,
“I think you’re gay.”
Unsurprisingly, he does not like this.
He rolls out his yoga mat
on the floor and lies there,
refusing
to speak or look at me;
Even when I’m crying, even when
I say, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,
I didn’t mean it that way, I’m just scared you don’t like me,”
He is unmoved and unmoving.
So I start packing. Now he speaks:
“Don’t escalate,” he says — as if
refusing to acknowledge me was
a neutral act.
I tell him he made me feel repulsive
as I fill the pink backpack
he bought me, and he says,
“Why is it my job to fix it?”
And I say
“BECAUSE YOU ARE THE GROWN-UP.
I am also… an adult.
And I have adult agency,
and I am using my adult agency
to leave, and I’m leaving.”
I go into the pitch-black living room
and pull my boots on in the glow
of my iPhone flashlight.
I decide to call a decadent
eight dollar Uber to my place,
even though by foot it’s
only twenty minutes away.
This is how I realize I am wasted.
My fingers struggle to type my password
one, two, three, four, five
six times, and I am locked out
for the next ten minutes. This delay
is enough to land me square
in his doorway, sniffling,
“Aren’t you going to ask me to stay?”
I feel pathetic
knowing he didn’t ask because
he knew he didn’t need to.
I lay down on the yoga mat
with him, knocking my knee
on his bedframe.
I don’t let out a yelp
but it leaves a bruise.
III
Fight Scene Number Two:
I am a groupie
and a sycophant, according to the man,
and I guess it’s not untrue.
But wouldn’t love do that to anyone?
Didn’t love do that to him?
Then again, our love’s long gone;
I shouldn’t be here, I think,
I know better. It repeats
in my head like a drum,
I know better, I know better, I know better — than to come whenever I’m called.
Repetition is the purest expression of grief;
Say the same thing over and over again, as if
somehow that will transform the meaning.
But it stays the same,
always stays the same,
I know better than to be here.
He tells me
he’s sorry for me. Because
I could have had a real relationship,
and I’m not going to now. He’s right,
but I don’t know what that has to do with anything.
What’s the point
of a ‘real relationship’
with a man who will never understand you?
All I have now is a chance
at what I’ve always imagined doing —
to pack my bags
and storm out.
“You should know what it feels like.
I have to do it one time. Because
it’s the only thing I can
do — you always made the rules.
The only choice I have
is to leave.”
At first,
he physically holds me down, hands
on my shoulders.
He could say
he was worried for my safety
if questioned, but by the look
in his eyes when he pulls away,
I know he sees I’m afraid.
Wherever he is, he’s left
the gray area.
But he can’t acknowledge it
with a “Sorry,” so instead he says
“Fine, get the fuck out.
Get the fuck out.
Get the fuck out.
Get the fuck out.
Get the fuck out.”
I pull on my boots and call the Uber.
Moments later,
I’ve missed one call and fourteen texts:
“I love you
I love you
I love you
I love you
I love you
I love you
I love you
I love you
I love you
I love you
I love you
I love you
I love you
I love you”
I see them and I just
go home.
IV
This isn’t working.
All good poets know
you have to cheat.
Breaking free of it
is the crucial part
of any good conceit.
By which I mean —
you can’t tell a story in fight scenes only.
It doesn’t work that way.
If you can’t see the happy moments,
you don’t know what’s at stake.
I take a break from the poem when —
V
You and I have our first fight.
Our first real one, anyway.
It obliterates my ability to write.
For a time, I abandon realism.
I start work on a fairytale,
an extended metaphor, where I’m under a spell
because that's the only way I know
to describe how I’ve experienced life lately.
Then I abandon that piece
because I know you’ll hate it —
you can’t stand cleverness, you despise
allegory. You are not a member of the cult
of imagination.
And I want to write the kind of thing you
would like.
Obvious and frank.
So here it is —
VI
I am blindsided.
I can usually sense when
a fight is on the horizon.
Evolutionary adaptation combined with
a fraught childhood had gifted me
heightened awareness
of small behavioral shifts
in men I loved.
When the energy of their silence
and stillness
had the potential to go kinetic
I always knew.
But this weekend had been almost idyllic —
despite how I’d maimed
myself at my best friend’s birthday.
In the morning, you went with me
to the doctor
so I wouldn’t be afraid.
I was still afraid
but glad you were around.
We parted for only a few hours.
At the party, we snuck out
early, took the train and walked
the remainder of the journey,
despite the frigid air.
We kissed at every corner.
I said I hadn’t eaten all day
so the plan was to obtain
some pizza, but first we stopped at a
bodega for beers.
Therein, we encounter two giddy
youths; They couldn’t possibly be
more than fourteen or fifteen.
They say, “We got this pizza for free,
do you want it?” We do.
In return, you buy them candy. One of the youths
literally jumps for joy.
I have rarely ever been so happy.
At your place, I barely
land a drunken pirouette.
You say, “That was good.”
You say
this is a night you’ll never forget.
VII
It’s the next day, after Confessions.
You got mad because you thought
I was flirting
with a guy who isn’t smart enough to mention.
I thought that was the end of it. Silly me.
You only brought it up
because you knew something
I didn’t.
No matter what,
this night was going to be
nightmarish.
Walking down the street from KGB, too fast,
I hold your hand not
sentimentally, but because you’re outpacing me.
You say,
“You’re so cute, it’s ruining my life.” I still think
it’s facetious. Why would it not be?
You already blackout, and me
near-sober,
we get the ‘evil beers’ (9% ABV).
You at least have the decency
to feed me before
the five hours of torture you’ll forget.
Wait until I scarf down the ramen
you made me, like a gentleman —
To be fair, it’s just a guess
that 2 A.M. is when we get to your apartment.
Neither of us knows quite when it started.
You call me a bitch and I say
“Please don’t call me that.”
You say, “It’s just what you say
when you’re angry. When you feel
things so deep.”
Another sign, another portent
of doom that eludes me.
But I do feel a sting. So I bring
up when your sister said,
“Why do you like him?”
And I laughed, like it was a joke, and she said,
“WHY?”
I had a list of reasons I could give,
but then we all got in the cab and let it
fade into the uproar of the night.
VIII
Or, Roman Numeral Vee-Eye-Eye-Eye.
This is where the pain begins. I won’t go in-
to how you called me names
“White trash.” “Loser.”
“You gon’ hit the wall,
bitch.”
Your big public apology’s been made.
It’s your turn to be plaintiff, and mine
to be insane.
When the boy I’d built my world around, for a year
before we’d even kissed — so more than two total —
said he wished he’d never met me,
I said,
“I should put my money where my mouth is.”
You said,
“What do you mean?”
And then I leapt towards the cabinet,
groping for a childproof lid —
perhaps my first acknowledgement
that a child isn’t what I am —
and dumped the pills into my palm.
You said,
“Not my Advil, I like those.
I need those for my head. Besides,
you can’t kill yoursef like that.”
But I’ve Googled it before,
and you totally can kill yourself like that.
IX
The struggle plays out twice. Your fault
for putting the bottle back
in the exact same spot.
This time when you wrench it from my grip,
you count the total;
“You’re gonna kill yourself with…
seven Advil? Stupid girl,
you’ll just give yourself a stomachache.”
Okay: I had neglected
to do inventory. I was focused
on keeping the pills in my hand.
Yeah, that’s not enough.
You continue,
“This proves you hate me. It’s mean
to try to kill yourself here.”
I realize, “You’re right…
I still have a key. I’ll go try
to kill myself at my ex’s.”
I then do something you’ve read before
in my stories,
but have never seen in real life.
I start pulling on my boots.
You say,
“Fine. Leave.”
And I start to cry. Because you know
I’m not going to. And I know
you won’t let me.
You say as much —
X
You in your chair —
that terrible orange yonic-looking one
too close to the ground —
and me on the floor. I point out
“We always end up like this. If
it were blocking in a play, it’d
be too obvious.”
In acting school they always talk about
“status” - who’s got the power in a scene as seen through body language.
You say,
“Yeah, this would be good blocking.”
You hold me — one hand against
my bunched up knees, the
other on my back,
my whole body in your grasp
like it’s nothing. “I don’t care if it’s bad,
I wouldn’t let you leave
right now.”
And that’s
the virtuous half of you. It’s the other half —
blackout, maybe manic — that grabs
my face
and scowls, returning
to the idea you should never have known me
in the first place —
or your best friend.
I guess I’m forced now to give context;
I fucked him shortly after you said
you loved me, but you couldn't be my boyfriend. And then I did it again.
And then I did it again.
You learned of the third incident
in the interim
between taking me to the doctor
and that golden, snow-covered evening.
It hits me all of a sudden
that the whole adventure was tainted.
I was so… happy.
Once again, I begin
to cry: “I wish I got hit
by a car that night,” I tell you.
“I wish I’d walked into a red light
and you weren’t quick enough to stop me and I got hit by a car and died.
I was so
happy.
Everybody wants to die feeling
happiness, but you never think
to commit suicide when
everything is beautiful.
It only comes to mind
when the beautiful part
is over. The best thing
that can happen to you is
an accident.”
Seated on the floor I sob
into your knee.
Your face may or may not
bear an expression.
Perhaps I’m lucky I can’t see.
Your half of the argument is circular.
You want me to admit
that I’m in love
with your best friend,
but I’m not, so I can’t.
You ask
over and over.
You say you hate me
over
and over.
Just once,
I say it back.
This seems to placate you.
I guess you think I’m being ‘Real.’
But I don’t mean it —
not just in the grand scheme,
I don’t even mean it in the moment.
It tastes like cherry cough syrup
in my mouth. The kind of thing
you want to puke up, but choke
down.
It doesn’t matter. Soon enough,
I’m a loser and a bitch again.
XI
Probably four hours deep.
I’m still on the floor, crying
into your knee.
“I just thought…
that love would be beautiful.
But it’s so ugly.
Everything is so cold and so ugly.
Even me.”
You say,
“That’s a good line.”
XII
(Or, Roman Numeral Ex-Eye-Eye).
In Gen Z terms it’s like
Five Nights at Freddy’s —
when dawn hits, you know
you’ve made it through the night.
We fuck. I cry. You fuck me
again to blot it out. We sleep.
We go to your childhood favorite
restaurant in Chinatown.
I walk home in your hoodie.
XIII
It’s only a day later the next time I see you.
I go to your place Tuesday night. Both still
melancholic, the same dim light. Same
rap playlist I’d never listen to.
I’ve learned a lot of the lyrics by osmosis;
these things happen, through
sixteen,
seventeen months
passing.
Oh God — I’m talking the way insufferable
mothers do about their babies’ ages;
Just say it’s a year old.
But I can’t. I’d be erasing almost five months
where my thoughts were ruled by you. You ask,
“Do you want one of these evil beers?” Yeah, I do.
You sit back down — you on the chair, me on the couch. The lowness of your chair means our eye-lines are level;
Again, good blocking.
We touch knees.
You apologize. You didn’t mean the things you said
when you were angry, you were only reaching
for something that could hurt me.
Bitch.
Loser.
The most effective insults
are often the most generic.
Mostly, people are all insecure
about the same handful of traits.
I try to understand how you could say those things
and not, on some level, mean them.
I then remember I’ve done things
and, looking back, found the girl who did them foreign.
I guess you get overwhelmed by anger
and I get overwhelmed by fear. I don’t say this
out loud, so I don’t know if you agree.
But it’s a comforting thought.
XIV
You tell me you remember wrestling the pills away,
and you remember us fucking.
The space between those events
encompasses several hours.
It disturbs you
what you don’t remember.
It disturbs me too.
Not just because
you don’t have to live with the memory
and I do.
But because in the midst of your interrogation,
I said some things that felt really important.
You say I should repeat them now.
“Okay,” I begin. “I just feel like…
You kept going on about how our friend said
I’m not ‘Real’ with you.
And I think you think
I’m being more ‘Real’
when we argue.
Like you thought you saw the ‘Real’ me in
that story about my fight with my ex.
But you know what?
I wrote him pages
and pages
of love letters in cursive, glitter glue
hearts in the margins.
That was real.
We built our own language.
I had a habit of hugging him super tight
out of nowhere, like a sloth clinging
to a tree branch, so he’d say I was ‘sloth-ing’ him.
That was real.
I had a little song I’d do:
‘Lovely Mr. [REDACTED] / He’s my favorite guy /
The peach and the plum / and the apple of my eye /
Lovely Mr. [REDACTED] / Doo-dlee-doo-dlee-doo.’
God, that’s so embarrassing —
But it’s REAL!
That’s fucking REAL.
That’s REAL.”
In this moment, I notice a tear rolling down your face.
Normally that would cause me to stop, diverting
my attention to making you less sad.
But I have to keep going:
“I was so scared to show anyone that ever again;
I thought my favorite part of me might be dead. I have had
to hold myself back
so many times,
you know. It’s not just my sadness
that I thought was too much.
It’s the love, also.
…Do you wanna know
the realest I’ve ever been with you?
It’s when you said you loved me.
And I finally got to say,
‘I love you too.’
Because it was allowed.
I love you.
That’s the realest thing I’ve ever said.”
It’s quiet for a moment. Then you reply, simply,
“For the record, I don’t think it’s only real when we’re fighting.”
And then I bridge the already-narrow gap between
us to share your seat, and I hug you. I need
to feel that you’re a person in the room.
I can’t sit across from you like I’m looking at a screen.
XV
In the morning, you’re packing for a trip
somewhere far away.
You hold up the bottle of Advil to show me
it’s dented now. “I’m sorry,” I say.
“Don’t be. I think it’s cute.”
We both head outside, and you get in a car
and I head in the direction of the train.
They’re the same streets we wandered
just Saturday.
The sky’s a murky gray,
the buildings, too.
But transposed on top of it, I can see
a sheet of white, glistening
on the sidewalk, soaking up all
sound.
I can see
the golden glow of streetlamps
against the night as they hit
falling snow
so it looks like confetti.
And everything sparkles. I can see —
I can see it
so clear
I almost feel you next to me.
It’s beautiful.
It’s so real.
Adeline Swartzendruber is a writer and actress living in Brooklyn. Her work has been published in Spectra, Expat, Sarka, Charm School Mag, and Egirl Zine. She isn’t very good at describing herself. Read her writing and you’ll find out who she is.
❤️
