Me: ...
Russian lover: @$#&%*#$!
Me: But...!
Russian lover: $%*&$*#!
Me: Ok then! Fine.
Russian lover: !!!!
Door: Slam!
Some arguments are like a hit deep into left field with two outs and two strikes...they are the last rally of some lurking bad mood, the last efforts of an off day. You didn't see it coming, although you felt that it was possible.
And nothing is worse than a lovely evening molested by a petty fight sparked by divergent expectations or mismatched dispositions. Having spent an evening traveling parallel, it is a harsh awakening to see that somewhere between the street and the bed you've gone in opposite ways that come round to a collision. And then you stand stubbornly locked until one of you breaks the tensile moment and leaves.
Time and space deflate hostility, and later sex will reinstate the effortless congeniality between lovers. Until then, words hang over heads like jagged icicles, looming menacingly but mostly merely dripping until they disappear.