"Sheeted" is a Word

Our conversations are like chess games. I methodically plan my next statement, then his and twenty versions of the latter. All at the same time. Ten steps ahead, that’s what I am. And miserable. 

I leave nothing to anyone else, control everything, and then realize that the moment is passing me by. And the glimpses of it I see are actually just perfectionist paragons of ‘us’ in all of our youthful and carefree love. These glimpses are lies. I’ve filled my moment up with deception and ridiculous expectations.

So, taking my understanding of self-preservation too far, and maybe even in an attempt to work towards that relationship paradigm, I explained my feelings of being a non-priority to him. Friends and work have always been the gods to which he prays. He was hit with pangs of depression upon hearing this and now lies in his bed, sheeted with self-wallow. He weeps for not being perfect. I dream about the perfection that could be if only I could make it. So I try to make it by telling him and then he weeps for not being perfect. Chess games don’t go on forever though…so how does this end? I was always terrible at chess. Perhaps a bit more defense than offense? Perhaps just let things happen. Perhaps I’ll switch to backgammon. My people did something right.