Oh shit, she was crying, big sloppy tears mixing in with the snot pouring out of her nose.
"You can always dish it out, but you can never take it," I said.
She sniffled and wiped her nose with the sleeve of her sweater, a disgusting thing for a grown woman to do. Now her black sweater looked like it had a fresh trail of semen on it.
"It's so completely different, you ass. How could you even think what I said is even the same ballpark as what you said?"
She searched for some sort of tissue, something to blow her nose on. I got up and ripped a paper towel from the dispenser in the kitchen. She grabbed it from me and blew her nose, a loud pathetic honk, like when a child blows their nose.
"What'd I say? What could I possibly say that gets this Meryl Streepian reaction?"
"You said, 'It's probably for the best'. Probably for the best, like I'd be some horrible fucking Joan Crawfordy mother."
"Yeah, I said that after you told me, 'If you worked a little harder, you'd still have a job.' Like I'm such a piece of shit layabout, who didn't wake up at four in the morning to go to a job I already fucking hated so you can have all this and a baby."
"Well, I guess that's all moot now," she said, tears suddenly gone, just icy blue eyes boring into me.
"Probably for the best."
She threw the snot soaked paper towel at me and said, "Jesus!"