We don’t mention our most recent disagreement in the morning. I don’t mention that I think he’s a jerk, and he doesn’t mention that he thinks I’m setting us up for another fall.

Instead, we wake and eat through the contents of the breakfast basket that was dropped at our door and then dress, ready to chop the wood that Kyle was supposed to work through yesterday.

They say the aftermath of an argument is like walking on eggshells. I’ve never experienced that until today. Kyle and I tiptoe around each other. We smile, we hold hands, we even laugh, but we don’t fool around. He doesn’t throw his pillow at me when I tease him. Partly because I don’t tease him. The air between us isn’t light enough to carry the meaning behind any kind of taunting, and I fear the words may cut harsher than they’re intended.

And so, we are perfectly civil.

It’s only when we get to the pile of timber that needs to be split that the mood begins to lighten.

“I bet I can chop more than you,” Kyle sets a log on its end, ready to smash into it. “Come on, I’ll set a timer. Let’s see.”

Happy to have any kind of distraction from the tension, I’m all up for this. Plus, the challenge, Kyle knows, screams to my competitive streak as well. “Sure, bring it on.” I suck in my bottom lip, lifting one eyebrow as I begin the contest.

“You ready?” Kyle asks, not waiting for my answer as he clicks the start button on his phone.

“Three, two, one,” the electronic voice counts down.

We both begin smashing our logs, one after another. We lift the ax above our heads and pull it down with our full body weight landing central to the chunks of wood. It feels good to be outdoors again, being physical and pushing my endurance to the limits. The burn of my muscles and the ache of my limbs is real in a strange situation. It works for me.

My shoulders throb as I check the clock.

Five minutes down, another five to go.

The next part of my body to weaken is my thighs as I squat to bring the weight of the metal down with full force. Sweat leaks from every pore as I check Kyle’s progress out of the corner of my eye. He’s doing better than I am; his pile is already a good third more than I’ve managed to chop. I power through, slamming metal into wood, removing my aching limbs from the equation, blocking out the pain and concentrating on speeding up.

As I do, Kyle must notice, because he matches my increased speed, chopping against me log for log. My back is soaking now, and I regret not bringing another change of clothing. I push the thought from my brain, focus on the logs and on Kyle not wanting to live with me.

With that reflection, I renewed energy in anger, which pushes me forward. Kyle is bigger than me in stature, and he’s also been training harder, but he doesn’t have the same will to win as I do. Nor has he been running on explosive power since he was seven years old.

As he wanes, I pick up my speed, feeding my energy from his grunts of discomfort.

The electronic beeper goes off, and I slam down my ax, one final time with a grunt as I stop, panting and looking at my husband’s pile, trying to determine which of us is the winner.