Cunty

At our friend's house last week, I told Andrew he was acting "cunty," and our friends laughed.
Through dinner, he barely looked at or talked to me.
Afterward, he was outside, sitting down by himself, looking at his phone. I went outside to apologize, and he said, "It's okay," in a way that meant it wasn't really okay. And I kept apologizing, and he kept only half-looking at me, and I couldn't stand it anymore. So I told him I was going for a walk and immediately lit a cigarette as I started to walk away.
I didn't want a cigarette. I didn't want four cigarettes. I felt sick to my stomach, and smoking just made it worse. Maybe that's what I wanted-- to feel worse. I couldn't remember the context of the conversation or why I said what I did, and of course, I didn't actually think he was acting cunty. I mean, Christ. "Cunty"? It's a joke of a word, meant in a joking way. But I felt ill, thinking that he believed I meant it.
As I made my way back to the house, I saw that he was walking toward me. We met halfway. It was awkward, quiet, painful. My eyes were leaking. My nose, too. And all I could say was, "I'm sorry, I'm really sorry," quietly, over and over again. I needed him, almost desperately, to see that I meant it. And he put his arms around me-- wrapped me up-- and I told him I didn't want to lose him over something stupid I said that I didn't mean and couldn't even remember.
We went back in the house through the side door so I could slip away into the bathroom to wash my splotchy face.
Later, he said that he just didn't know why I would say something like that, why I would embarrass him in front of everyone for no reason. I was awful all over again. The rest of the night was tense and strange, and even the next morning, until he held onto me and said he was sorry for getting so angry. I apologized for the leaking eyes and nose and acting like a girl. And then we went back to being our foolish, hopeless selves, confessing secret romantic things and conspiring like children to love each other as long as we could.
Everything-- not this, but everything-- with him happened so quickly. But for the first time, I think I want a future with someone, and that doesn't make me want to run away or cringe and cower. Dogs and an apartment and cooking and running and sleeping and sexing in perpetuity, with him. I want to plant my feet somewhere and wrap my spindly branches around this and make it happen. It's a gross sentiment, I know. And so... out of character, at least for me. But I want it. I don't know what else I could possibly want.