“I love you, but you make me so mad sometimes.” He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t usually. As a general rule, he hates confrontation and yelling and won’t raise his voice until he’s in blind fury. Screaming furious, no. But he is frustrated enough to forget his usual pedantry. I’m angry is what he usually says, rarely I’m mad. You make me so mad, you make me so angry, you make me so crazy. All truths, all truths in that moment. He is crazy about her; he is angry at her.
He bites hard on his back teeth and sighs his pent-up energy, tries pacing out the rest of it. “I love you. I really do. But I’m just so—” He sighs hard again and takes a sharp turn toward her, throwing a glare across the room. “So mad.” There is something nice in saying it like that. He is angry, frustrated, he doesn’t want to talk to her. There was a time angry meant all or nothing, possibly signaled the end of days for them, their relationship, whatever love they hold for one another. Now, it simply meant, I can’t believe this! How could you?