I clench my fists, trying to stay calm. He’s baiting me, poking me until I snap. And then, of course, it’ll all be my fault. And then the whole situation will be attributed to me—my fault, the crazy unhinged fiancée who can’t control her temper.
“Why are you talking to me like that?” I ask, my voice shaking. “By the way, you smell like White Claw.:
His scowl deepens. “I do so much around here. I cleaned the back room for you. It tookhours,and you’re so ungrateful.”
“Ungrateful?” I yell, my patience snapping. “It was only a mess becauseyoumade it that way! So you fixed the messyoucaused. What do you want, a Nobel Peace Prize?!”
There’s a gleam in his eye—a sick satisfaction in pushing me to this point.
He stomps off to the back room, slams the door, and locks it.
Moments later, I hear movement—the screen on the window, maybe? His new trick is jumping out the back window like a teenager sneaking out past curfew.
I’d never known an adult to jump out of their own apartment window until I met Timmy. But here we are.
I doze off for a while, waking in the early hours of the morning.
I update Alice.
Alice:
I know you care about him, but it will not get better until he has an extremely stringent mental health routine—it would probably involve something like seeing a therapist weekly, taking medication multiple times a day, and seeing a psychiatrist.
Me:
I told him he needs a psychiatrist. And yes, he needs a structured approach to his mental health.
Timmy eventually emerges from the back room, heads straight to the bathroom, and turns on the shower.
A few minutes later, he returns to the back room, slamming the door again.
Me:
He’s emerged from the shower now. I have no idea what his deal is. 1am shower man? I’m going to make a podcast called 1AM Shower Man.
Alice:
Sounds like a background villain in the Harley Quinn show.
Timmy emerges from the back room once again, naked this time.
He glances at the TV. “You’re watching that Amish shit?” He shakes his head. “I don’t know why you watch that stupid show.”
It doesn’t matter that he was enjoying watching the exact same show with me days prior. His taste in entertainment flips on a whim, as he’s proven many times.
“Can’t we just watch Pete Davidson instead?”
I sigh. “Sure.” At least he’s picking a show I also enjoy this time. I’ll take the W.
Next thing I know, he walks over to me and shoves his flaccid penis in my face, wiggling it around like one of those wobbly inflatable men typically found outside used car dealerships.
As this all goes down, I message Alice with a running commentary.
Me:
I was watching Breaking Amish, and he was complaining about it.
Now he wants to watch Pete Davidson.