“Nah, but I take responsibility. And I’ma handle it.”
His eyes narrow. “What are you gonna do?”
“I said I’ma handle it.”
He takes this well, almost looking proud as his eyes drift past me to the wall behind me. He won’t say it out loud, but I know he’s impressed by the charts and plans. Whatever else I fucked up in my life, my professional achievements are undeniable.
“I was just packing up to leave,” I say. “If you wanna hang around, we can walk out together.”
“Cool. Mind if I look at your drawings?”
I chuckle at that. “Have at it.”
I take my time getting my shit so he can get a better look. He makes his way from one end of the trailer to the other while I pack and repack and pretend to pack. I wish men weren’t so fucking afraid to talk to each other, because I know there’s some interesting thoughts in that bald head.
But we’re silent.
We hug in the parking lot, and then I’m headed home. Now that I’m alone, I feel more centered. There’s no judgment in here, no worrying about how to react. It’s just me in this motherfucker, and it all comes tumbling out.
“Fuck you,” I mumble. “Shoulda never married your crazy ass.”
I turn the stereo down and listen to the wind rushing by.
The near-silence is loud. So loud, it leads me to a very important realization.
She’ll never change.
Pop was right. I’ve been trying to love her through it, but this is who she is and who she’ll always be. And the worst part is, I knew the truth and fuckingchosethis shit.
I told my pops I’d handle it, and I will, but I need a strategy. Mrs. Raya Taylor will not go gentle into that good night, that’s for damn sure.
When I pull into the garage, I don't smile at the sight of her car. Just that quick, the marital bliss I thought I found is gone.
I'm cautious when I walk in. She's at the stove like she normally is, but I barely see her.
“Hey.”
She turns around, her face stony and tight. “Hey.”
“What you makin’?”
She blinks slowly. “Chili.”
I nod. “I’ma shower and then I wanna talk.”
“Good, because I wanna talk to you, too.”
At that, I turn and walk away, puzzled by her mood. She seems pissed, but that doesn’t make any sense. She’s the one who fucked up.
I shower quick, and by the time I’m done, the table is set. A big pot of chili, a bowl of salad, crackers, and our dishes and silverware are laid out before me.
I swear to God, I don’t even wanna eat tonight. My appetite is fucked, so there’s that, but then there’s the nagging thought in the back of my head that wonders if she did something to the food.
“Ladies first,” I say as I sit.
She grabs the ladle and gives herself three dips full. She won’t eat until I do, so I go ahead and grab mine, too. Then we bothlift our spoons at the same time, but I wait for her to eat the first bite. She does without hesitation, so I feel safe to dig in.
She’s crazy enough to eat her own poisoned food, but I’m probably tripping.
