The woman is still, except for her left thumb. It flicks the handle of a knife rhythmically. The blade slaps against the plate that holds a half-eaten wheel of Brie, creating a ping...ping…ping. Her gaze is on the closed door. Her expression is stone.
“Cleanup on aisle two!” The man’s voice gushes with accomplishment. It’s followed by a chuckle and, “Oh, honey, that was intense.” A minute later, there’s a flush and the door is flung open. “A truly great one, baby. It was a fucking delivery!” He stands just inside the bathroom, smiling, drying his hands on a paper towel. He tosses it at the bin, missing by only an inch, and glances up. The woman remains seated on the couch, her face a blank slate. “What?” he says.
“Why must you always do that?” The clang of the knife is like a metronome. “Why must you do that every time?”
He cocks his head. “Do what?”
“That!” She points a shaky finger toward the bathroom door that is now partially closed behind him.
He turns to it. “Why do I shit? I guess because I eat?” He turns back to her, his grin a half-moon. But he sees that she’s still not smiling. “Oh, did you want me to close the door? I sprayed.”
“Not the door, you moron,” she rises, releasing the knife to the plate. “Why do you always have to announce the damn process? It’s annoying, and I’m sick of it.”
The man, his entire body now at questioning angles—head still tilted, shoulders shrugged, arms out to his side with pleading palms—studies the woman. “Are you serious?” His shoulders rise. “I don’t always do that. And anyway, I was just joking with you. God! I thought you liked my joking.”
Her voice is measured. “You do it always. And I don’t like it. For nearly ten years you’ve been doing that. Every fucking time. You have to give a play-by-play as if you’re Howard Fucking Cosell. ‘It’s a home run,’ or ‘We’re goin’ into overtime, folks.’ If it’s not during the process, you rattle off a review when you’re finished.” Her tone has escalated, body stiff, fists anchored at her hips. “’Baby snakes,’ you’ll announce. Or, ‘Bunny turds’ or ‘Cow flaps!’ Sometimes it’s, ‘Hell of a tsunami. Take cover!’ At least then it’s information I can use.”
He approaches her as if to give comfort. “I hate to disagree, dear, but I think you’re exaggerating. Are you okay? Too much wine, maybe?”
She takes a step back. “I’m obviously not okay. I’m done. I’ve had it. I’ve been out here listening, thinking, realizing how much you disgust me. If I hear one more of your annoying recaps I’m going to go nuts, I swear.” She lowers her head. “And who knows what I’ll do. I’m ready to walk, dammit. It’s taken all this time to realize how much I despise you and your juvenile ‘jocularity’, as you like to call it. I’m not your roommate or your gym buddy.” She lengthens. “I’m your wife and I’m sick of being treated like your pal at summer camp. No more. I’m on my last nerve and it’s fraying fast.”
“But you are my pal.” He reaches toward her again but stops when he feels it coming. He tries to hold it in, but it’s too late. A whining gush squeezes out despite his efforts. It seems to go on for a full minute, like helium escaping the lip of a balloon. The two remain standing, eye-to-eye. The man reddens. The woman is without expression.
“Sorry, hon,” he says, his voice gilded with innocence and resignation. “Air raid. No warning.”
If the knife had not been so close—still dappled with remnants of the Brie they’d been enjoying on toast points with glasses of Chardonnay—it would not have found its way into the soft flesh at the man’s nape, affixing itself there like a joystick. But it was and it does. The man falls back, his wide eyes still connected to the woman’s. Hers are wide as well, staring into his, skipping through an inventory of emotions. Horror. Dismay. Comprehension. Guilt.
They settle on fulfillment.