Silver Spoon

“I knew it! You prick!” 

The coffee mug missed my dodging head by about six inches, but the stream of steaming liquid hit my face, burning my skin and causing me to instinctively close my eyes. I could smell the whiskey in the coffee.

The sugar bowl that followed hit me square on the nose and upper lip. When I opened my eyes, and pulled my hands down from my mouth, my palms were dripping with fresh blood.

“Bleed out, you bastard,” she screamed to the ceiling. “Bleed out!”

I turned my back on her and walked towards the downstairs bathroom. I heard the kitchen sink slam on, then off. A cold, sopping wet towel hit me in the back and fell to the floor. When I turned to pick it up, she had closed half the distance and was waving a sugar spoon at me, snotty and crying and raging.

She mocked my Oklahoma drawl. “I’ll never cheat on you, baby. I’m just not built fer it.” 

Then she threw the small spoon at my face, grazing my ear as I ducked away.

“You’re a fucking LIAR!” She attempted to spit at me, but her mouth was too dry.

I turned and continued to walk to the bathroom, holding the wet towel against my busted lip and nose, its off-white hue changing to pink then to bright red.

I closed the bathroom door but did not lock it. She’d just kick it in. And I’d have to fix it once the house was mine.

But she didn’t follow me. Instead, I heard her mount the stairs, howling her frustration like a frightened hostage screaming for help.

The damage assessment of my face revealed a puffy upper lip, split open on the inside, and a cracked front upper tooth. My nose was numb and bleeding but otherwise undamaged. 

I swished some water in my mouth and immediately regretted it. The electric shock of the cold water hit the exposed root and it took my breath away. I gripped the vanity top against the pain until I could open my eyes again. Regaining my composure, I dry-swallowed four Motrin from the medicine cabinet, shoved some cotton balls between my cut lip and my teeth, and turned for the garage - I needed to get my lip stitched, and something had to be done with the tooth. 

Before I could walk completely through the kitchen, I heard another scream from upstairs behind me, then the soft clang and flop of hangered clothing being hurled down the stairs. Next came thudding shoes and belts. Then, there was a pause for a long, primal scream, followed by my entire underwear drawer, which gouged the stairwell before crashing against the far wall.

She must’ve heard me lift my keys off the hook. “Come back here, you big pussy. Don’t you run from me.”

The tumbling metal-framed picture of us exchanging wedding vows missed my head, but embedded a corner into the sheetrock around the front door frame. I opened the garage door, clicked the opener for the roll-up door, and walked towards my truck on the driveway.

At the last minute, inspired, I casually keyed her BMW parked in the garage, leaving two parallel and deep scratches in the metallic blue paint from the front fender to the rear wheel well. It felt good. I wished I could be around when she saw it.

My phone connected to my truck and as I was backing out a call came through. It was Becky.

I thought about ignoring it but she would just keep calling.

“Did you tell her?”

“Yeah. It went better than I expected.”

“Come see me, baby. I want you. Right now.”

“I’m headed to the hospital. I need stitches.”

She laughed. But it wasn't a mirthful chuckle. It was a triumphant blast of scorn disguised as joy. “What did she do?”

“I dodged the coffee mug but didn’t see the sugar bowl coming. Split my lip and cracked my tooth. I need oral surg–”

“I’ve got your oral right here, baby.”

“I’m in pain, Becky. I’ll call after the hospital and tell you the whole thing.”

“Poor baby. Don’t worry. I’m gonna make it worth your sacrifice.”

She disconnected.

I was doing about forty-five in a thirty-five when my wife’s BMW smashed into the trailer hitch and tailgate of my Tundra, causing my head to jolt back then forward. I heard the metal scrunch and twist as she let off the gas to back her car off the trailer hitch. She was gonna ram me again.

I slammed on my brakes and her beamer slammed into my truck, ruining her front end, my trailer hitch buried in her radiator. Steam billowed up from under the crumpled hood of her car. She had always been so predictable. Her drinking and her anger were a perfect tinder box. 

As our neighbors came outside to see what the commotion was about, I waited to see her driver's door kick open in my side mirror. Then I crept forward, just fast enough that she could not run to catch up. She threw something that landed in the bed of my truck. I found it later. Her shoe. She was a vision of insanity, stranded in our neighborhood after ramming me with her car, drunk at 8:45 am, mascara dripping down her face, screaming hysterically, and wearing one shoe. 

It took about two hours including the wait time, but the ER folks stitched my lip and gave me a referral to an oral surgeon who would see me immediately. They asked what happened. When I told them, they asked if I felt safe and if I wanted to speak with a police officer.

"Not yet," I said.

As I walked back out into the ER waiting room on my way to the parking lot, I noticed a crowd of patients and staff lined up at the far wall of windows, pointing and talking, eyes wide, hands covering mouths. Over their shoulders I saw flames in the parking lot. Flames where my truck was. My Tundra was on fire. My tinder box had metaphorically and sorta literally exploded.

When the cops arrived, after the fire department, I told them the whole story. They asked if I wanted to press charges. I said, absolutely.

After a brief investigation, they arrested my wife before noon on charges of battery, reckless endangerment, reckless driving, arson, and driving under the influence. I had the divorce papers served to her the next day while she was still in jail working on bail.

With no pre-nup, and the boom in the real estate market, I expected to clear about $8.2 million. Not bad for a torrid five-year stint with a hot-to-trot 60-year-old hotel executive on her second marriage. The sex had been surprisingly good. And she had a ton of hot, younger, morally-ambiguous friends. Like Becky.

But Becky wasn’t going to pan out. It just wasn’t fun anymore. No risk, no challenge. She enjoyed my game too much. In fact, I kinda wondered if she was playing me. So I took Becky to the Maldives, manufactured a red flag about her being too close of a friend with my now ex-wife, and then let her down slowly and gently while the divorce proceeded.

I let the women come to me from that point on. They’d heard the stories, and some didn’t think for one second that I’d done anything wrong. Those were the ones who spent the most time in my bed.

I live in Arizona, now, in a neighborhood built for independent seniors. I still teach tennis, and the prospects just keep rolling in. I think I'll try a seventy-something this time. They say seventy is the new sixty.