He was pissed. Livid in a quiet way that made you careful not to make too much sound on the hardwood floors. You had all the spots that groaned out with noise memorized and padded cautiously, slowly, across the house. He was pissed. At what you couldn't really be sure but it was painfully and dramatically directed at you. He wanted a woman. A woman with goals, with intelligence. A woman that didn't have too much going on that would draw her away from him, into mysterious smoke filled rooms where conversations on things he didn't understand, things he didn't relate to, occurred. He was a mishmash of many faults, a man of contradictions. He wanted a woman, not a girl. The house lacks air, you are breathing in emotions and vibrations coming straight from his being. Negative. Dark. The stench of pessimism is more than you can take. You just sit back, at a little table against the wall. You just watch him. You just try to get it all down and hope that one day it will make sense. He wants a woman. You question your worth and you remember you are still young. You are much younger than he is. It is not your worth that should be questioned but the memory of the man who claims to be too mature for late night gatherings. A man who has forgotten the spontaneity of youth, a man who may never have experienced it to begin with. Hung up on stereotypes and the imagined judgments he thinks everyone must be thinking about him. It seems he can never just enjoy life. Just enjoy the fucking moment. You'll look at him and fake a laugh for a joke that you have never been immature enough to find funny. But no compromises will be made on his part to hang out with your acquaintainces, to share your life. He hits you in the face with things like, they're too young, I'm too mature for that. He wants a woman. He wants a woman who has none of these things. He wants a woman with a job. He wants a woman with time. He wants a woman who banishes social gatherings in favor of watching mind-numbing late night TV while he works on the computer. He wants a woman who has given up. You can hear him re-arranging. Cleaning. Straightening out the house, he does this when he feels that something he can't control is in chaos. Out of his hands. You can feel the stress, palpable, real, too much. You feel a sense of guilt that you know, logically, shouldn't exist. You have done nothing wrong. A personality clash and you're the one to blame. All women are crazy, he is just waiting for them to all go insane. You are losing compassion, losing a sense of yourself. You put so much energy into making sure he doesn't get irritated, you never know what will make him mad. Careful not to joke about certain random and unrelated things, he will take it personally. Be careful not to spend too much time talking to your girlfriends. Be careful not to rock the boat. Be very fucking careful. Like a stranger in your own house you hope you can just be seen as a smile and an ass to fuck. Don't get too opinionated, don't show too much passion, he can't relate to that. You're being dramatic. Your afflicted with the naivety of youth. You hope you can just not. fuck. it. all. up. You hope you will just snap out of it and live a life worth living. He is pissed. He want's a woman. You just want to be loved. You just don't want to make any waves. You just want to live up to the great expectations of someone else.