Meltdown

He plopped onto the couch with a bowl of mac and cheese, resumed Stars War: Episode IV - A New Hope, and kicked his feet up onto the ottoman. While chewing his first spoonful of noodles, he squinted at her headlights filtering through the blinds. When she swung open the door and slammed it shut, he jumped in his seat and almost choked. Her steps thundered through their one-bedroom apartment. She zoomed by so quickly that he couldn’t even complain about her blocking the TV.

Once he finished coughing, he said, “Hey, babe. You’re home late.”

“Yeah, I am,” she muttered, rummaging around her desk. “Turn that down.”

“What’s the magic word?” He joked.

“Now,” she ordered, killing his fun.

He frowned but followed instructions. She opened her laptop on the counter and tapped her nails while waiting for it to power on. After two seconds, her foot joined.

With a mouth full of food, he said, “There’s some mac on the stove, if you want some.”

“I’m fine.” She opened her internet browser, as he tuned into the action scene he’d seen ten times prior. “I thought I said to turn that down,” she added.

“I did.”

“Well, turn it down more.” He did as he was told, left with subtitles and light background music. “Come on!” She yelled at her computer.

“I forgot to tell you,” he started, chomping on macaroni and entranced by the TV. “The wifi is down. The whole neighborhood.”

She rotated her head like a possessed doll, the rest of her body unmoving. She stared him down. The heat of her scowl burned his face. He turned to meet her glare.

“What do you mean the wifi is down?” She asked through her teeth.

“The wifi,” he stuttered. “It’s not working.” His bowl and spoon rattled in his hands. “There was an outage. They’re working on it.”

“But I need to buy those concert tickets for my niece.”

“You can use my phone.” He searched for said device, patting the coffee table and couch and digging in between cushions. “It’s gotta be here somewhere. How about your phone?”

“You don’t remember dropping it in the toilet yesterday?” She stared him down some more.

“Right. Sorry about that.” Both of them were frozen, paralyzed by very different emotions.

“What are you doing?” She asked. He looked around for an answer spelled in the carpet or written on the walls. Han Solo, what was he doing? “Find your damn phone!” She commanded with a voice that shook the walls. He returned to digging, flipping over couch cushions, and crawling on the floor to peer under all their furniture. She checked her watch every three seconds, while supervising him. “If the wifi is down, how are you watching TV?” She asked.

“Babe, it’s a DVD,” he replied, while searching the pantry. He sighed when he found no phone next to his ten boxes of mac and cheese. “Don’t you remember getting me the complete Star Wars DVD collection for my birthday?” He reminded her.

“Right.” She nodded as if reading a story to children, everything heightened. “So I get you a whole collection of movies you love, and what do you do? You break my phone and lose yours!”

“That’s not fair!” He hollered from the garbage. “I made dinner, and I got you that scarf for your birthday.” He sighed. “Babe, I can’t find my phone. Can you try calling it?”

She walked over to the garage door with the speed of a mobster boss who just finished a large meal. With two strong feet, she blocked the doorway. “Babe, how can I call you? Remember, you broke my goddamn phone! Ah!” She turned about, lasered in on the box of tissues on the counter, and hurled it across the room, hitting the TV. “Will you please turn off the damn TV?”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he muttered, while scooting past her with hands up. He grabbed the remote control and did what was asked of him. “See? It’s off.”

“See? It’s off,” she repeated with her voice in her nose and her face scrunched.

“You don’t have to be mean.”

“You don’t have to be mean,” she continued her charade and added some jazz hands.

He sighed, walked past her, returned to his search in the garage, and began whistling while shuffling things around.

“So now you’re not talking to me?” She asked with crossed arms.

“No, not when you’ve got an attitude.”

“An attitude?” She leaned in. “I have an attitude?” She crescendoed to the point of blowing him off balance. “You wanna see an attitude?”

“No,” he muttered to the ground.

“That was a rhetorical question!” She screamed and grabbed the sauce pan’s handle in one hand and the wooden spoon in the other. She squared up to him.

His hands shot up. “Please don’t.”

“Too late!” She hurled scoop after scoop of macaroni and cheese at him, sustaining a roar throughout her storm. He shielded his face with his forearms the best he could. When she scraped the bottom of the pot, she threw it across the room and snitched the pile of napkins. They floated when she wanted them to shoot, so she growled and ripped them apart with her hands and teeth. With empty hands, she moved onto the drawers. Spatula. Serving spoon. Potato masher. Whisk. Tongs. Ice-cream scooper. Measuring cups. One cup, half cup, third cup, and quarter. Measuring spoons. Both sets they owned. All on the floor, pooling at her feet, thrown down as if on the losing side of a wrestling match. Wading through the crowded floor, she reached the spice cabinet and swung open the door. One by one, she opened each canister and coated the counter and floor. Once she emptied the cumin, she dusted off her hands and turned to her boyfriend. With hands on her hips and in between huffing and puffing, she asked, “Did you find your phone?”

He gulped and said, “Well, that was dramatic.”