Bruises

“Ouch!” Case laughed, with a large, honest smile on her face. She was standing directly beside the sink, and after our last round it was decided that she would do the dishes. There was a large bruise forming on her arm which she made sure to show me. It was dark, purple, and perfectly round. It was the best bruise I had seen in days, since Case had placed one under my eye when we were deciding who should take out the trash. “Best out of three?” Case asked, with a seriousness I knew could only mean she wasn’t ready to give up. 

I lifted up my hands and placed them near my head. Case took up her usual stance, which was loose, awkward but incredibly powerful. Her right fist was stronger than mine. When we began to date we arm wrestled before we upgraded to boxing, and although I only knew her for a few weeks I wasn’t the slightest bit surprised when Case defeated me in a matter of seconds. 

“Fight!” Case yelled, landing an unexpected jab straight into my chest. I flew back and my hand fell straight onto our unwashed stove-top, turning my fingers black with soot. I opened my hand and flamboyantly slapped my palm straight against her cheek. 

I was taunting her, which was something I quickly regretted when her fist smashed straight against my nose. 

It sent my body flying back again and I knew I needed to retaliate. 

I hated doing dishes. There was nothing I hated more in this world than dishes, and when we fought over other chores, such as grocery shopping or doing the laundry or vacuuming, I didn’t really care if I lost. I was simply enjoying the fights, with all the bruises, dislocated fingers and hairline fractured wrists that went along with it. But the dishes were different. 

“Ow-w-w-w!” Case yelled, after I landed a large punch straight onto the bruise that covered her arm. I smiled while she reveled in pain, and she smiled back. This was our love language, and Case confirmed it when she told me that violence was the secret, sixth love language. Case said violence was only for couples who truly loved each other, and when she punched me straight on the right cheek, forcing her hands to ache in pain as she’d missed the flesh and punched straight bone, I couldn’t help but smile as I fell back onto the pan rack that lived above our kitchen island. 

“Stalemate!” I yelled, noticing Case’s knuckles were beginning to swell and I was leaking blood onto the cutting board. 

Case lifted her head from her hand and smiled back at me. We both took a moment to assess our wounds before we locked eyes and knew that this was all either of us had ever hoped for out of life. 

“Who should clean it up?” Case asked, noticing the blood was staining the cutting board red. 

I took a moment to compose myself, and despite my head become slightly wobbly I was lost in the thought of how eternally grateful I was that we had stumbled upon one another, and how neither one of us flinched when one day we ran out of toilet paper and what began as a simple game of rock, paper, scissors turned into a boxing match. 

“Put em’ up!” I said, with a cheesy accent. 

Case smiled and lifted her fists, before she snuck a kiss on my cheek and sneakily landed a punch straight into my ribs before I could even say, “Fight!”