PREMEDITATED PREDATOR
DEX
I’m watching again. Margaux, in her unrelenting resilience, trying to keep her world from collapsing under the weight of Timmy’s endless games.
And Timmy, the master manipulator, still clinging to his shattered mask like it’s the only thing keeping him afloat.
He doesn’t know I see him.
He doesn’t know I’m watching every cruel move, every calculated word, every moment his mask slips further to reveal the pathetic coward underneath.
For three-and-a-half months, he kept it up. Sober, helpful, almost…tolerable. A facade so convincing it almost fooledmeinto thinking he might have changed.
Almost.
But here we are again, watching the same act play out, the same cracks spider webbing through his polished exterior.
This time, it starts with a fucking movie. Of all things.
Margaux’s relentless effort to give him something—anything—is met with his typical brand of entitlement. The cinema, her least favorite place, becomes his hill to die on.
He milks her willingness for all it’s worth, turning her act of love into another stage for his self-importance.
Her joy in making him happy, in enduring her own discomfort to see his excitement, is what makes her extraordinary.
And it’s what makes me hate him even more.
He doesn’t see it. He’llneversee it.
He’s too wrapped up in himself, too obsessed with his own reflection to notice the light she shines on him.
When he takes her to Target before the movie, my stomach churns.
His face lights up when Steve the Horse Cop calls, and he talks about Darren visiting him in his dreams. For a second, I think perhaps Timmy is capable of genuine sorrow.
And then, moments later, the real Timmy steps in. The Timmy who eyes the wine bottles like a kid in a candy store and casually drops the bomb—he’s off the Anabusin, and has been for two weeks now.
Right before his birthday.
Of course.
My fists clench as I watch Margaux’s face fall. She’s calculating, connecting the dots faster than he can spin his excuses.
The smug smile he wears when he delivers the news is infuriating, like he’s proud of his deceit.
Like he thinks he’s clever.
The movie itself is fine. Margaux laughs, genuinely for once, and I feel a prickle of joy for her.
She deserves these moments, free from his weight.
But it’s short-lived. The moment they’re out of the theater, he starts again. Pouting about dinner, angling for wine. He doesn’t just want her to bend—he wants her to break.
And I’m gripping the edge of my desk, wishing I could reach through the screen and end him.
Then comes Chelsea Handler’s show. Margaux has been looking forward to this for months, and he knows it. So what does he do? Makes it about him.
The ‘what if she picks on me?’ nonsense is bad enough, but it’s his exit right before the opener that really gets me.