The French have this phrase, l'esprit d'escalier. Literally, it translates as "the spirit of the staircase" but what it actually means is "the things you think of to say after it’s already too late and you’re on your way out." I always loved the idea of a strange little ghost haunting the stairwells and entry halls of the world, tormenting generation after generation of quarreling friends, family and lovers with all the snappy comebacks and witty ripostes that they could have given if they’d only thought of them a few moments earlier. It’s a romantic sort of idea, in the old-fashioned sense of the term, and as you have often pointed out, I am a complete sucker for romance. "Blindly sentimental" was, I believe the way you put it this evening, though you’ve said it any number of ways.

In any case, the spirit of the staircase rode all the way home with me tonight after I left. It’s a long way from your house to mine, even when it isn’t dark and lonely. It was an especially long drive tonight with that belated muse perched on my shoulder whispering in my ear all the clever things I could have said to you if only they’d come to me sooner. I played our conversation—our argument? our quarrel? surely it wasn’t actually a fight—anyway, I played it over and over in my head going home, hearing every snide, unforgivable thing you said again and again as I drove.

The spirit kept on whispering, and one by one, I began to insert the cutting remarks she fed me into my memory of what happened this evening. I recited the whole scenario backward and forward, repeating my new clever replies to myself until I was almost convinced that I really had said each of them to you at just the right moment earlier. In my mind our little drama began to deviate from its original version, in which—let’s be honest—you said a number of heartless and well-worded things while I stuttered and protested in lame half-formed sentences. It now became a new version in which every cold, canny remark you made was met with unaffected sarcasm and rapier wit. In my mind I had not finally fled, hurt and drained, leaving you looking unconcerned and superior with your arms crossed across your chest, a barrier that I would never been able to break.

In my mind the things I said hurt you as much as you hurt me, and when I left you were trying to apologize, trying to make me stay and forgive you. In my contrived memory, the simulacrum I had constructed to play your part had been biting back tears as I left and those imagined tears gave me a fierce, hollow satisfaction because in the real memory the tears had belonged to me. I fought them down until I reached my car, so that you wouldn’t see how much you’d affected me. But as soon as I slammed the door, they welled up like rivers breaking their dams—a cliched and romantic expression, and another one of those things that makes you say I’m too sentimental, but the metaphor is no less apt for over-use.

So I cried hot, horrible tears, not sure if I was more hurt or more angry, and the spirit of the staircase took up residence in that part of my mind that I can never get to be quiet. All the way home I muttered to myself the scathing comments I wanted to have made. I stopped crying at some point because by then I was feeling less wounded and sorry for myself. Instead I was angry and filled with a righteous indignation that burned along my veins like fire and poison.

How could you say that to me? How could you dare?

But like I said, it’s a long drive home. By the time I got here all the fire had gone out of me. I no longer wanted to hurt you, I just wanted to hear you say that you really hadn’t meant most of those things. My little fiction about snappy comebacks and making you cry seemed now to me almost as terrible as it would have been if it had actually happened. I felt small, and tired and guilty and missed you very, very badly.

So I dialed your number with some trepidation, knowing this might just make things worse.

"Hello?" You sound clear, pleasant, as if nothing untoward has happened, as if nothing is amiss in your world. I’ve known you longer and better than almost anyone, and even I can’t detect a trace of unhappiness, of regret. There is no hint in your voice that anything at all might be wrong. A tiny remnant of poisonous anger flares up somewhere in the region where I usually get heartburn. Why should you be able to hide your feelings so well when I must, perforce, wear mine on my sleeve. Or didn’t the past few hours mean anything to you at all?

"It’s me," is all I say.

Your voice changes instantly. "Oh." You suddenly sound irritated, almost sullen, as though I’ve interrupted something important but you know you won’t be able to get rid of me quickly.

There’s a pause in which, as usual, I can’t think of anything to say. Where are all those God-forsaken snide remarks now? So of course it’s you who speaks first.

"Have you called to apologize?"

The tiny flicker of anger flares briefly and dies to smolder somewhere between indignant and exasperated. "I was," I realize as I say it that it’s true and I wonder what I’m supposed to be apologizing for, when all of my hurtful words remained purely theoretical. "But now that you mention it, I don’t really think that I’m the one who should be apologizing." You try to reply, but I rush ahead, afraid that if you get in some quick-witted cut-down then I won’t ever say this. "Look, what you said was true, but it was still awful of you to say it, especially like that. You know I get all tongue-tied when you’re like that and you don’t even care. It’s not my fault that I’m not half as big a smart-ass as you. It’s not my fault that I can’t—I—I just can’t, and you can. You have every advantage and it’s not fair."

I have to pause for breath and before I can continue you interject.

"You’re right."

"And I’m—right?"

You chuckle just a little bit and it occurs to me to be annoyed that you can chuckle at all right now.

"Yes, you’re right, but you had more to say, don’t let me stop you."

"Well, I was just…um…bother! You’ve broken my train of thought."

"Sorry." You really sound amused now, but rather than being irritated I’m just confused.

"Wait, let’s go back. I’m right? As in you’re agreeing with me?"

"Yes"

Okay, so far so good. "About which part?" I ask cautiously.

You sigh and then: "The whole thing. It’s unfair of me to rip you a new one like that when I know you’ll just go into a coma and be all hurt and play dead and make me feel bad."

"I make you feel bad?"

"Yes, you. Make me. Feel bad."

"But I didn’t even say anything!" I wail guiltily, thinking of all the beautiful, awful anythings I thought up on the way home.

"That’s exactly what makes me feel so terrible! You go all sad and forlorn like it’s you against the world. I can practically smell the martyrdom coming off you!"

"But that—I don’t—"

"Forget it, okay?" You chuckle again. "I should know better. I always feel like I’ve killed a kitten or something after I’ve upset you."

"Then why do you upset me?" I implore.

"Because you piss me off, that’s why!"

"I didn’t mean to piss you off!"

"I know, that just makes it worse!"

"Well I’m sorry!" I’m shouting into the phone now.

"Don’t apologize!" you shout back.

"Alright, I’m—"

"Don’t bloody apologize!!" You sound as frustrated and emotional as I feel now, which makes a tiny part of me feel better about everything.

"Okay! Okay! Stop yelling at me!"

"You started it!" you’re still shouting.

"Right. Sor—um. Okay." I stop yelling and almost say I’m sorry again before I catch myself. There is a pause while we both regain our composure, then I remark matter-of-factly "You are a terrible person, you know that?"

I can hear the smirk in your voice now. "You’re a bleeding saint, and that’s worse."

"You mean to tell me that being a heartless sinner is better than being a tongue-tied saint?"

"Hey, you would say nasty things, too, if you could think them up fast enough. You know you would."

"I know." I still have very guilty feelings about my fantasies of the drive home. "But you’re still an evil person."

"Hey, it’s why you love me."

I give what I hope is a derisive snort, or a fair approximation thereof. "You’re sure about that, are you?"

I can tell you’re really smiling now. "Would you really have me any other way?"

"I suppose not," I concede.

"Of course you wouldn’t."

Another pause. I feel drained and exhausted now that all of this is out in the air. I just lean back against the wall and listen companionably to the sound of you breathing, knowing you’re doing the same. Finally I say "Well, I am going to bed now, unless you have any more uncaring wisecracks you’d like to impart?"
"Nah." You sound tired now, too. "Go to sleep. I’m all out tonight anyway. I’ll have thought of something really snarky by tomorrow, though, never fear."

I laugh a small, tired, relieved laugh. "Okay. Goodnight, then."
"Hey."

"Hey?"

You pause for a moment, then: "I’m sorry."

I knew there was a reason I kept you around. "’S okay. I Love you."

"Love you, too. Goodnight."