The hard plastic gave way without much resistance. The softer plastic inside—the plastic which held the ink—just bent, didn’t break, so crisis averted there, no ink flicked all up and down his hands and shirt sleeves. He had wanted to show his frustration, but not make a show of it, not actually have to clean anything up or apologize even, just a targeted display of rage visible to her alone. No one else was looking at his hands; no one else was close enough to hear him breath sharply through his nose, or catch the narrowing of his eyes. She was close enough though, she was close, and this pen snap—like the professional snapping of a chicken neck—was for her.

He pocketed the two pieces and walked four steps ahead of her across the train platform. Or maybe she followed four steps behind. It was hard to tell whose frustration was in control here.

He’d always hidden his rage like this, allowing it to explode only in containment, only when most others weren’t looking; only when it could be sealed and thrown into a dumpster where no one would find it and where they couldn’t connect it to him even if they did. Once, after quietly slipping from the house he shared with her and her son in Massachusetts, he’d stolen a pumpkin off the door step of his neighbor’s porch, brought it to a lonely spot in the neighborhood and stomped it to a pulp. Then he screamed into his gloves until his throat bled. And then he walked home, watching his breath dissolve softly in front of him.

But he showed her. At some point (two years in? three years? he can’t remember) he held up his hands to her, hands cupped around his hate and anger and sadness as if they held some childhood treasure like a cricket or lightning bug. He created a little opening, an eye hole, and let her look in. And she nodded and stood her ground and waited for his next move. This is how love works. You burn through everything attractive and good—your expensive haircut and your love of animals— and if they remain, there is nothing left but to try and get rid of them by showing what’s inside your cupped hands; showing not your capacity for love, but for hate. And if they remain even then? You’ve been broken like a horse. And if they are smart, they will know that part of your hate will always be directed at them. Their love cuts off every other option in your life and so you have to hate them. They end your life by becoming your life.

And vice versa of course.

He once ripped a phone book apart while she stood silent in front of him. He once threw a carton of eggs against the kitchen wall and left it for her to find. He once cheated and left clues. He did everything of which he was capable. Some are capable of more, some less. He would never physically harm her—as with drugs and acts of bravery there were lines literally impossible for him to cross—but he would do everything of which he was capable, that was clear to him. That’s how much he loved her and tragically that’s how much she loved him.

He walked four steps ahead of her; or she kept a four step distance. She had been unable to operate the train station ticket machine. A line had built up behind her. He refused to help because she should know how to operate the ticket machine. She refused to ask for help because she shouldn’t need to. He resented that the person holding up the line, unsure of what to push, was his responsibility. The horror of it all being, of course, that he would have gladly, kindly helped anyone who wasn’t his responsibility. He showed everything attractive and good to those he didn’t know.

Finally, the old man behind her stepped in and helped in the gentle way only the oldest among us can do. She brushed past him, very obviously ignoring him. He remained still for a moment, knowing he should’ve helped, but refusing to apologize. He knew he would eventually apologize, that’s how it worked. But for now, they would trade frustrations. He pulled a pen from his bag and turned on his heel, catching and then passing her, snapping the pen in half for her, just for her.