My wife’s been posted to Mars for work, alone, for six months now. Most nights, we end up arguing over video call.
A signal takes ten minutes to reach Mars, one way. So whatever I say right now doesn’t reach Yuka for another ten minutes. Her reply takes another ten minutes to come back. In other words, I’m always talking to the Yuka of ten minutes ago.
Mars happens to be about as far from Earth as it ever gets, right now. When the planets are closer, the delay drops to five minutes. Our fights, of course, always seem to land during the far stretches.
“Hey, did you water the cactus?”
Yuka asks from the screen. Probably something she brought up ten minutes ago.
“Yeah, I watered it. Properly.”
I answer as the me of right now. But by the time my voice reaches her, she’ll already be on to the next thing.
”…It’s dying. Show me.”
I don’t show her. Instead, I take a long, deliberate sip of barley tea.
Every night goes like this, always out of sync. Sometimes one of us is apologizing while the other is still hearing a shout from ten minutes back. Making up and fighting — neither one has ever once lined up.
Tonight it started with the cactus and somehow wound up at last year’s road trip.
“That time, you didn’t even look at the map—”
“I did look! You were the one asleep in the passenger seat!”
The second it’s out, I regret it. That comeback won’t land for another ten minutes. Until then, all I can do is watch a Yuka who’s still angry.
Then, out of nowhere, her face softens.
”…Well. That ocean really was beautiful, though.”
Something in my chest loosens on its own. Ah, we’re making up.
“Yeah. Let’s go again sometime.”
I say it gently. And right then, her face hardens again. My “you were the one asleep in the passenger seat” has finally arrived.
“Excuse me? Are you saying it was my fault?”
The truce lasted exactly ten minutes.
Not that I’ve ever once felt like I actually won, in six months. My arguments always arrive ten minutes late, landing at the worst possible moment.
So tonight, I’d made a plan. Say my best line, then hang up before the reply comes back. That way it’s over before I can lose.
I took a breath.
“Cactuses die if you overwater them! If you’re so worried, come back from Mars and do it yourself!”
I said it, then cut the call. Won. A clean, complete victory, six months in the making.
I finished my barley tea, turned off the lights, and climbed into bed. Tonight, for once, I figured I’d actually sleep.
Ten minutes later, the screen flickered on in the dark living room. I got up and looked. There was Yuka from ten minutes ago, grinning like she’d already won.
“—See, that’s exactly the kind of thing you do. Whatever. Good night.”
And with that, the call ended from her end. Apparently she’d hung up before hearing my reply, too. She thinks she won, too.
I sat there for a while in front of the dark screen. Then I typed “Good night” and hit send. It won’t reach Yuka’s already-dark screen for another ten minutes.