Why is a nearly 40-year-old man throwing things at me?
Why is any of this happening?
He responds by rolling into me on the bed over and over again, his weight crushing me as he cackles, “Hahahahaha!” each time he does it.
I’ve had enough.
This is too much.
With all the strength I can muster, I shove him away, sending his 200-pound ass right off the bed.
Ahahahaha yourself, dickhead.
“You’re so fucking lame!” he screams, scrambling to his feet. ”You suck balls!”
I don’t respond.
His attention turns to the TV. “I want to watch a show. That one we just favorited.”
“Okay,” I shrug, because at least he’s not physically slamming into me now.
I find the remote and put on the show he mentioned earlier, hoping to pacify him.
He doesn’t seem to be watching it closely, but at least he’s calm.
I hug him. “Didn’t you want to watch this show?”
“I plead the fifth,” he replies, smirking.
I shake my head. None of this makes sense. My life has stopped making any semblance of sense.
TWO DAYS LATER
We’re driving back from a beach on the other side of the Cay, and his nitpicking is relentless.
There’s a weird part of the route where the freeway exit is on the left instead of the right. Confused, I take a wrong turn, and he berates me.
“You went the wrong fucking way!” he sneers. “Jesus Christ. It’s a really straightforward route. What are you, stupid?”
I feel flustered by his admonitions and compelled to defend myself. “It’s a confusing intersection!” I snap, my frustration bubbling over. “The exit is on the opposite side of the road from usual!”
“Well, you’ve been here before!You should know!” he screams.
“Leave me the fuck alone and let me drive.”My own voice rises to a shout.“You’re getting me all flustered!”
He smirks, satisfied, his voice now calm. “Look at you yelling at me. You really need to learn to control your temper, Margaux.”
I grit my teeth, tears of anger stinging my eyes.
When we get home, he immediately picks another fight.“You make me feel small!”he yells.
Guilt floods me, unearned but potent. Ididyell at the top of my lungs back in the truck.
“Look, I’m sorry I raised my voice in the car on the way back. I was stressed about driving at night. I’m sorry, I should have tried to stay calm. I shouldn’t have yelled. I apologize.”
Without a word, he storms out of the apartment.
When he returns twenty minutes later, the smell of cigarette smoke clings to him like an accusation.