Bean Counting

She adds up all the names 
people have given her over the years: 
‘Vain, difficult, cold.” 
Someone once told her that 
people are expendable to her. 
She recites this phrase for the 100th time. 
I wonder if she believes it. 

She argues that her list is qualitative 
and mine quantitative because 
I number the times 
she’s touched me without provocation 
and the times we’ve taken-out 
instead of eaten-in. 

I defend my car analogy once again 
but she still doesn’t like love 
as a luggage-burdened Volkswagen 
in the slow lane 
or lust as a Ferrari speeding 
out of control. 
One more smart-ass comment 
sets her off, but I don’t check myself. 
I rush through all the reasons why 
I’m mad and right. 
She requires proof, but I know when I speak,
my evidence breaks apart.

Her list for me; 
mine for her. 
“I won’t be your patriarch, 
protector, provider, etc.” 
This gives us some common ground.
She says she won’t be my mother,
my angel, or my baby. 
I smile and take into account
the fact that once again 
I’m giving in. 
From now on, 
I’ll learn to count in quiet.