For want of a nail... (a fictional narrative)

For want of a nail the shoe was lost;

for want of a shoe the horse was lost,

and for want of a horse the rider was lost.

—Benjamin Franklin, “The Way to Wealth”

They haven’t spoken properly for four days now.
She thinks she might shatter from the pressure of the silence, or the frost of his disapproval seeping out from under his closed door. She also thinks that when—or, she corrects morbidly, if—they ever get through this, it will be a tale to marvel over later, at how they kept going as if nothing were wrong while exchanging no words beyond brief, monosyllabic demands and answers.
It’s almost peaceful, in a way. Nothing to distract her from her own thoughts roaring in her head. No friendly banter, no gentle teasing. Nothing.
She knows it’s silly, and foolish, and juvenile, and completely pointless. She carries on in silence nevertheless, ignoring the timid prod of guilt in the back of her mind and the more aggressive stab of shame—You are such a child. Where is your forgiveness, your compassion?
But overwhelming them all is the dangerous, unrelenting march of He thinks he owns me...I’ll show him! And it’s not like he’s any better than me; he’s not speaking to me either!
And so she bubbles in the noxious fumes of her own anger, her own hurt and insecurities, with an acrid dose of suppressed guilt thrown in for good measure.
Four days of chilly silence. It’s becoming almost routine for her now; maybe, she muses numbly, they’ll go on like this forever. She could get used to this, perhaps. And maybe the thought of a lifetime of not speaking to each other, ridiculous and improbable as it is, scares her a little, but maybe it’s just the silence talking. She can’t really tell anymore.

—

It began with seven missed calls and two irate voicemails. Well, three, really, if she were to count the one he left by accident, all static and crackles and a faint thread of No, she’s not picking up, I don’t know where she is, I don’t know—but she doesn’t count it, not really.
It escalated when she rescued her phone from where it lay quietly sandwiched between the cushions of the couch in her best friend’s apartment, skimmed the ten new notifications all from him, and pressed the delete button.

When her friend protested, she laughed it off, secure in the knowledge that she knew him and he knew her, wonderfully and easily and completely. “Oh, he’ll be fine. Last time I was five minutes late coming home from work, and he called three times to make sure I hadn’t fallen off the subway or something! He’s such a worrywart sometimes.” She switched the phone off and tucked it into her bag. “Now come on, or we’re going to be late to the play!”

She’d meant to call him back later—really, she had—but as it turns out, she was late to the play after all. She had to brave an auditorium full of frowns just to get in, but she figured it was worth it to see her friends shining onstage. Then it was off to the afterparty, where there were snacks and laughs and congratulations all around. Maybe she lingered longer than she should have, but it wasn’t like she had work the next day anyhow, and nobody would mind if she stayed for just one more joke, one more story—but he did. He minded.

His fury when she burst through the front door was a shock of cold water to the face.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he’d demanded, pointing his phone at her like it was a weapon.

She’d been caught completely wrong-footed, then became defensive, her anger quickly rising to match his.

“I think I was just out supporting my friends in the play and having a good time—not that it’s any of your business,” she spat. “What’s your problem, anyway?”

“My problem,” he repeated disbelievingly. “I called you and called you, and you didn’t pick up! I’ve been worried sick, and here you are out partying with your friends, but you couldn’t even be bothered to pick up the phone!” His words were flung with as much force and as little care as possible, designed for maximum impact. “Excuse me for caring about you, when you obviously can’t remember I exist!”

Lashing back was instinctive and felt almost like absolution, deep and vicious and bursting right through and out of her chest. “You don’t own me,” she snarled, dropping her bag on the floor and stripping her heels off with excessive force. “The world doesn’t revolve around you, mister, so sorry for wanting to go out and live a little.”

She could see the retort sparking out of his eyes and carving angry lines around his mouth. She preempted it by quickly escaping to the bathroom and slamming the door shut before he could say a word. In the sudden quiet that followed, she clicked the lock with as much venom, defiance, and rage as she could muster.

When she emerged an hour later, the apartment was steeped in a brittle silence. It remained that way for the next four days.

—

How did it all go so wrong so quickly?
She stares blankly at her fingernails and ponders nothing at all for a while, until she hears his door open softly. Her phone is charging on the kitchen counter. From where she is sitting, she can see it vibrate for a while, then light up with another notification: 1 missed call.
He glances at it on his way through the kitchen, and she can tell from the set of his shoulders and neck that he is fixedly avoiding even the possibility of glancing at her. If she squints, she can almost see him holding back the sarcasm and bitterness: What, ignoring yet another person who cares about you? Or should I say...cared?
Suddenly, she is bone-tired of the avoidance and the coldness and the cobwebs she can feel growing in the cracks between them. She is worn down by the sustained anger and regret persistently knocking at the back of her mind, and she knows with a fraction of the old security that although it’s no fault of his, he is too. That’s just the kind of person he is: soft, worrying, caring
Her tongue feels rather too thick in her mouth from disuse, but she reminds herself of how it all began: with a few choice, barbed words. Or, if she wants to be technical, with seven missed calls and two—no, three—voicemails. She can fix it now with her words. Simple, right?
It begins with a beat of silence, liquid—the silence of thawing and stretching and possibilities—and eight words. “Hey...I’m sorry. Can we talk about it?”