As I lay there next to Keith one Sunday morning, the thought wound rope like through my mind. This time last year, we’d reached the point in our relationship where you either decide you thrive on the constant drama of your fiery disagreements, or you are just so exhausted that you say to hell with the entire marriage. Ceasing to argue didn’t even seem like an option for us; it was who we were. It was what we knew. I smiled in the early light of the winter sunrise, remembering my very first tangle with him. Doctoral studies at NYU placed me in Keith’s ‘Culture in Late Antiquity’ course. I think he decided from the moment we met that he was going to relish challenging me to within an inch of my sanity. There I was, with my rather well-developed sense of self, and he was all but pre-coming from the prospect of knocking me off my high horse. With just a few more credits to hook under my belt before my dissertation, I was feeling more cocky than usual. Keith was new to the professorship, but he was well respected in the Anthropology department for his two books on the cultural rituals of Ancient Greece.
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