Babe, are you nodding off? I know we’re both exhausted after a long day, a dinner party at which you made a three-word comment that left me feeling like you don’t know me at all, and the subsequent ninety-minute fight that culminated in a tentative truce. But, now that we’re finally in bed, what do you say to my ripping off your sleep-apnea mask and our having a marathon discussion about the state of our relationship?

I just feel like since our most recent dysfunctional episode is fresh in our memories we shouldn’t let it go to waste. A much better use of our time would be if I dissected your diction, syntax, and micro-expressions; compared them with the historical record, thanks to a “secret sauce” algorithm I’ve been coding for the past year; and teased out the sources from which they came (your mother). My guess is this will take two to four hours that could have been less fruitfully spent slumbering.

I assume you’re fluffing your pillow because it’ll make for a comfortable object to lean against as I cite the physical affection that your friend Dylan reflexively shows toward his partner as the kind that you once showed toward me but for some reason stopped. After a few lukewarm denials, you’ll go into the reasons for this cessation, which will lead me to become snappishly defensive, and we’ll devolve into a vicious cycle in which you utter variations on “This is exactly what I’m talking about” and “My eyelids are drooping, can we deal with this tomorrow?”

Hold on, buster—I see you dozing off just as I’m about to launch into how your habit of leaving your toothbrush head on the electric toothbrush is indicative of your fundamental lack of respect for all the domestic labor I do, which you justify because you outearn me. Which reminds me—and don’t even think of bringing out those earplugs, which is impossible anyway, because I nail-gunned your nightstand drawer shut—of the emotional labor I take on when we’re around your parents, and how, when we’re with mine, you just sneak off to the guest room to “rest” because you “don’t add anything to the conversation anyway.”

I hid your melatonin bottle, if that’s what you’re looking for. Aw, shucks, you found it. Well, you’re an adult—guess I can’t stop you . . . but I suppose I could have replaced the contents with the pseudoephedrine pills I’ve been stockpiling. Good luck not manically jittering for the next twelve hours! Because, baby, we’re gonna be airing festering grievances. All. Night. Long.

Thank you for apologizing. That took a lot, and I think it’s only fair that I exploit the opening you’ve given me by referring back to your concession seven more times.

Yes, I know it’s three in the morning. Sure, I’m aware you’ve got to be out the door at “0700 hours” to make it in time to your big, important “manned shuttle launch.” Nevertheless, I think we need to litigate a text you sent in October, 2018, that’s always bothered me and which I’ve been saving for the perfect moment.

Why don’t you greet me with a kiss anymore? Why can’t you say you love me without my saying it first and elbowing you in the ribs several times? And why is it a big deal that I placed tire spikes on your side of the mattress to insure that instead of going to sleep you—oh, I don’t know—actually listened to me for once?

Can you get the door? It’s the 100 gecs cover band I booked to play our bedroom.

Sweetie, are the “Clockwork Orange” eyelid clamps comfy? Because I don’t want you to miss any part of the twelve-minute monologue I’ve recorded and, with A.I., turned into a David Lynchian short film that will loop at steadily increasing volume until sunrise.

O.K., we’ve covered a lot of ground, but I think it’s best if you take the couch for the remaining half hour before the alarm goes off. So let’s make up by saying good night, hugging like robots, and angrily texting each other things we belatedly thought of. ♦