The Dance.

We get into arguments about where we're going to eat. I want to know what he wants, and he wants to know what I want. We both insist on getting the other to decide. We stay quiet and nothing gets done. I get angry because I think he's angry because he's quiet. We ride the train back to the sleepy city, our stomachs empty.

We get into arguments about which way to take to get to the museum, we pass grungy beggars on the street and my hand slips out of his. He buys me lemonade from a stand and takes my hand again. We reach the museum and look at the Picassos and Monets. We argue over the surrealist intentions and debate about what art is and isn't.

In the night we talk about ourselves and the world around us. We don't argue about the world, we don't question religion. We both know who God is, we see Him in each other. We work past the fights, we work through it all with heart and spine--love and strength.