But I can’t do that, because Joel would kill me—possibly literally.
Sighing, I open the junk drawer in the kitchen to search for the spare bottle opener since I’m pretty sure Joel left the other one outside. I dig beneath lighters, receipts, and pens until I find what I’m looking for, and I snag it just as my eyes catch on the small, white bottle beside it.
I don’t know why the idea comes to me, but once it’s in my mind, it sticks. A year or two ago, I had read an article about someone poisoning their spouse with eye drops in their drink. It had surprised me at the time that something so small and seemingly harmless could have such severe ramifications. I had fantasized about doing it to Joel then, too, and now, the tiny bottle in my palm tempts me more than it should.
I can’t kill anyone, I tell myself, not allowing myself toconsider whether or not Iwantto. My consequences would be too dire. But a couple drops would probably be enough to cause a little illness. And frankly, they deserve much worse than that.
The thought becomes an outlet for my anger, giving me the smallest semblance of control in a house where I’m utterly powerless.
I uncap the beer bottles first, then the small white one, and glance toward the doorway, before squeezing a few thick drops into one of the beer bottles. Not enough to kill anyone—probably, hopefully—but potentially enough to make them feel like shit. I consider spiking both drinks, but if Joel gets sick, that will only impart more of a burden on me. I’d have to take care of his whiny ass even more than I already do.
You could drink it all yourself, I think. I shake the thought from my head and bring the beers to the table.
The small sense of justice is enough to get me through the rest of dinner as I watch Brett sip the spiked drink. Realistically, it might not be enough to even affect him, but it brings the same spiteful satisfaction as if I had spit in his food.
The conversation drifts back to department politics, promotions and transfers, who’s screwing who, blah blah blah. I listen, but I’m not really here.
I’m watching the clock again, longing to disappear into my dreams, where I feel more desire for a man I’ve never met than the one sitting beside me.
Maybe Iamlosing grip on my sanity, but I guess it doesn’t really matter. I’d rather be happy in my delusions than permanently stuck in such a dull, depressing reality.
The night stretches on, and time seems to slow with each heavy tick of the minute hand.
The men’s voices only grow louder and sloppier as the alcohol strips away any last pretense of decency. They’reone-upping each other with work stories, some I’ve heard before and others new.
Nick launches into a story about a young girl—sixteen, maybe seventeen, he says—caught stealing nutrition bars from a convenience store.
“She was a pretty little thing,” he slurs slightly. “Looked so scared and helpless, almost reminded me of deer huntin’ season.”
They all chuckle, but my stomach turns.
“I almost let her off the hook, too, but then she got mouthy.”
Brett chuckles low, like he knows exactly where this is headed.
“So I put her in the back of the cruiser,” Nick continues, “and by the time we hit the station, she was sweet as a peach. Didn’t even end up charging her. Taught her a little lesson about respect instead.”
The group laughs, but I can’t hear it anymore. My pulse is a dull, heavy drum in my ears. I don’t look at him. I don’t let them see the part of me that still remembers being sixteen, scared of the world around me but desperate to get away by any means possible.
I don’t even want to imagine what he said to her in the confines of that car.
I keep my face smooth and my expression distant. Only thirty more minutes, and I can make the excuse to get up and clean. I just have to pretend for a little while longer before I can hurriedly do the dishes then escape upstairs to bed.
Brett injects himself into the conversation next, his voice louder than it should be. I flinch, but no one notices. “You know what the real problem is?” he slurs, slapping the table for emphasis. “No respect for the badge anymore. These punks don’t fear us like they used to.”
My husband lifts his glass, nodding. “The world’s gone soft.”
I stare at the blood-red wine in my glass as I swirl it and force myself to take a deep breath in and a slow breath out. The world hasn’t gone soft. It’s gone blind with cruelty.
The other ladies at the table are just as silent as I am. Whether it’s because they fear for their safety like I do, I’m not sure.
Eventually, conversation slows and people announce their departures one-by-one. I take the first one as my cue to clean up, grateful to be away from the obnoxious bravado and hateful commentary. The sooner the dishes are done, the sooner I can fade away into the only place I find happiness—my dreams.
I’m staring out the small window above the kitchen sink as I do the dishes, somewhere between zoning out and dissociating, when movement catches my eye. A flash of something in the darkness. My eyes narrow as I search the shadows, and…
He’s there, leaning against the lamppost under the dull, flickering yellow light, staring right at me.
My breath catches in my throat.
