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I let my hands go still, my fingers still gently holding her calves. I raise my eyes to hers. “I want to please you. I want to help your hurts. I vow to rub your body any time you have need of me to do so. Please tell me. You have only to tell me what you need, Becky. And I will try my best to give it to you.”
Her lips wobble before she presses them together. “Okay. Thank you.” She’s quiet for a moment as I return her feet to the floor. Then she looks at me, searching my face. “What can I…” Her eyes slide to the bed she’s sitting on before she finishes, “do for you?”
Rising, I take her hand and encourage her to follow me out of our mating and sleeping space to the kitchen table (a neutral space), to a chair, which I draw out for her.
I take the chair across from Becky. Staring intently into her eyes, I fold my hands between my widely set mechanical knees. “I appreciate that you’ve asked. I require your help.”
“Okay,” she says warily.
“You often point out what I’ve done wrong. It’s been some weeks of being your husband, and I routinely hear your criticisms. But I have yet to hear you give me praise. And,” I wave to indicate her ankles, “you tend to assume the worst of me in every interaction.”
She gapes at me. “I don’t—”
I cut a look at her. “You called me a jackass when I was attempting to share my observation about the differences I’ve observed between female bodies. While I can now see how I managed to trample your feelingsafteryou took the time to explain it to me, I would ask that in the future, rather than attack me, please inform me respectfully that my observation is rude to make. That way I know not to make it in the future. I would also like for you to explain why it is rude, so that I understand what hurts you. Then I can take greater care going forward.” I implore her with my gaze. “I’m not like you, Becky. I don’tautomatically know these things. I don’t even know what I don’t know,” I say tiredly.
“Oh,” she says, with no force whatsoever to her voice.
I give her a narrow-eyed look. “I would also like to ask that you not resort to calling me names you believe will inflict emotional damage for perceived slights. Continuing this behavior will be destructive to our relationship.”
Her mouth works. “I’m… sorry,” she says. Her brain is activating in the areas for shock, and somewhere near guilt. “I’m sorry I called you a name instead of just telling you that you hurt my feelings and pointing out it was rude.”
“Thank you.”
For several moments, there is silence between us. A thoughtful quiet.
My mental processes drift over the last few days, and I absently begin picking cactus thorns from my denim pant legs. I deposit the thorns on the table, beginning to accumulate a small pile of them within a short amount of time. “In light of this concern and along with this request, I have another. I’d like to ask that you also begin to incorporate praise.”
“Incorporate praise?”
I meet her eyes. “Yes. I’d like it very much if you start to tell me when I do things right.”
Becky shifts on her seat. “I do that. I tell you,” she claims.
Canting my head, I consider our interactions. “I cannot think of an instance where you have.” I begin to share with her a series of interactions when she’s taken me to task for mistakes, only informing me of what the right thing to do is after she criticizes a clueless alien to her ways. I end the summary with, “Correct me if I am remembering wrong, but I have not heard you praise me for my efforts even when I thought that I managed to do something sufficiently, properly, or aboveexpectations. It leaves me feeling as if I do nothing right.” I give her a stricken look. “Have I done anything right?”
Her lips have parted, her mouth slackening as I’ve shared what’s on my mind. “William… I’m sorry. Of course you do a lot right.”
I close my eyes, relieved. “I’m glad to hear it.”
Her voice is hesitant. “Anything… else?”
Opening my eyes again, searching her face, I nod. “Don’t assume the worst of me, please.”
Mouth twisting, her hands petting anxiously over her belly, she readily agrees. “I will try to give you the benefit of the doubt from now on. I’m sorry.”
Swallowing hard, I jerk my chin down. “Thank you.”
Tentatively, Becky reaches a hand out and places it on my knee. “You’re… you’re correct—I could have done a lot better at telling you when you’re doing good. Ishouldhave been telling you. You do good things a lot, you know.”
“No, I don’t know,” I tell her seriously.
She retracts her hand and her arms cross over herself. “I’m sorry.”
I retrieve her hand and bring it back to my leg. “I accept your apology,” I say with a nod. “And I forgive you.”
Jerkily, she nods. Her skull is throbbing with hurt. Confusion. And fear.
“There is nothing to be afraid of, Becky,” I assure her. “We will keep working on ways to successfully communicate the level of care we have for one another.”
