By Gloria Freedman
I wake up this morning and look over at the other side of the bed. My husband of fifteen years, Bob, is snoring with his mouth wide open. Instead of finding this endearing as I normally do, I consider punching his jaw shut. But I can’t tell if I have PMS, or if my husband is suddenly a garbage human being with no redeeming qualities.
I make my way downstairs and start a pot of coffee. Bob showers and then joins me. This is his normal routine, but I bubble with resentment. What, he can’t ask me if I want to shower first? I know he always uses up the hot water on purpose just to fuck over my whole day.
He makes his way over to the fresh pot of coffee without so much as a thank you. Oh, wait. He just said thank you. Well, what does he mean by that? Why is he all of a sudden so thankful? Does there have to be a fucking parade every time I do something nice? Is it that goddamn rare? This had better be my period talking. Otherwise this guy is worthless trash and I should probably divorce him.
Bob slams the carafe back into the coffee maker because he doesn’t value our possessions, and then takes a seat on the couch while I rage-scrub the counter. I watch as he scrolls through his phone and sips coffee. Why does he hold his cup like that? And does he have to swallow so loudly? Who raised this man? Why did they teach him to swallow like a whale gulping krill off the surface of the ocean? I can’t live like this.
The next thing I know, I get my period. So my scathing hatred of Bob? Just PMS after all. I know that after some pain relievers kick in, he’ll turn right back into the great guy I married. But I look all over for the damn Advil and I can’t find it anywhere. I’m pretty sure Bob hid it from me. Asshole.
By CarolAnn Liebelt