You Keep Giving Him More, but Somehow You’re the One Left in the Rain

You can spend quite a long time being wonderfully generous before noticing that you have become rather annoyed about the whole thing.

It begins beautifully. You love him, you want him happy, and doing something generous feels lovely. Then another little kindness presents itself, followed by another, and because none of them seems especially important on its own, you keep saying yes.

Nobody is suffering.

Certainly not Sir.

Then it starts raining.

You have one umbrella between you, and at first the two of you fit underneath it perfectly well. You walk close together, the pavement shines, the evening feels faintly romantic, and all is well with the world.

Then you notice his shoulder getting wet.

Naturally, you tilt the umbrella toward him.

A little farther along, his sleeve catches a few drops too, so you move it another inch. Nothing heroic. Nothing worth mentioning.

Except this is how the whole thing begins.

By the time you have crossed the street, Sir is strolling through the rain beneath what has become an unexpectedly generous amount of private shelter.

Madam, meanwhile, has lost half the roof.

Madam Has Been Very Accommodating

From inside a relationship, overgiving rarely looks like overgiving.

It looks like being thoughtful.

He is exhausted, so you make the evening easier. His schedule is difficult, so yours becomes the flexible one. He has had a terrible day, so whatever was bothering you can wait. He needs help with something, then something else, and before long you have become remarkably skilled at moving yourself slightly to the side.

Just an inch.

Then another.

From the pavement, however, the picture is getting rather funny.

Sir is dry.

You are not.

And yet you keep angling the umbrella toward him as though one wet shoulder on his side would be terribly unfair.

You notice the rain on your shoulder, of course, but moving the umbrella back now feels oddly selfish. He looks so comfortable. Everything is going so nicely. Must we really spoil the evening over a sleeve?

So you carry on.

Eventually, water is running down your arm while Sir chats happily beside you, entirely unaware that somewhere during the last few blocks he has become the villain in a story he does not know you are writing.

Look at him.

Not a drop.

Unfortunately, Sir Believed You

At some point, he may even notice enough to ask whether you are all right.

This is your opportunity.

And what do you say?

You tell him you are fine.

Naturally.

You are standing beneath approximately twelve percent of an umbrella, but Madam is fine, thank you very much.

The unfortunate part is that he believes you.

By now, the whole little arrangement is becoming difficult not to laugh at. You keep shifting the umbrella toward him, assuring him that you are perfectly comfortable, while privately becoming more offended by every dry inch of the man.

And from a little farther away, the wider picture is hard to ignore: you have spent half the walk giving him the dry side and the other half resenting him for standing in it.

By now, Sir may genuinely think this is how you prefer to walk.

You, meanwhile, are beginning to take his dry collar personally.

Somewhere Along the Road, Generosity Got Wet

By now, the real problem is no longer the rain. Madam has been so accommodating for so long that something which began as kindness has quietly become something she is rather annoyed about, while Sir is still strolling along quite happily, with no idea that the evening has taken a turn.

So there you are, still walking through exactly the same rain: Sir having a marvelous evening while Madam is quietly composing a rather lengthy speech about everything she has done for him.

And from a little farther away, the comedy is hard to miss. He did not wrestle the umbrella from your hand or demand the dry side.

You kept moving it toward him.

Then, somewhere around the fourth puddle, you became furious that he was dry.