CW: Domestic abuse
In real life you bring home the wrong cut of steak; sirloin is what your husband wanted. You were beat after work. And the grocery store was a bloodbath. “It’s all FAT,” your husband barks in his socks, slamming the whole wheat rolls on the table. “I guess that’s what you know well, huh.”
You dig out the pan and grab the unsalted butter, scarf still hugging your neck. “Tuesday night,” you say to me with your signature shrug-and-smile, the move you perfected for these moments. “Let me pour you some wine!” Then in a whisper: “Thank fuck you’re here.” You hand me one of your nice glasses, the ones you save for old friends, but in my mind it’s a baseball bat. I get into stance and blast your husband’s head deep into the outfield. Looks like it’s gonna be an inside-the-park home run—there’s no defense. When I round second, I see many heads lining the outfield wall. Some sit upright on their necks, some rest on their cheeks, tongues limp on the grass. As I come up to home plate—stadium lights bursting like fireworks—you’re in the dugout, smiling without shrugging behind a cooler of Gatorade. You know we’re gonna celebrate, I see you thinking. Let’s please celebrate.
Kate Faigen works as a copywriter in Los Angeles. You can find her on Twitter: @k8faigen.