Monday Morning

I spilled his coffee this morning. On the sun bleached marble, in the kitchen he paid for. My husband sighed deeply behind me at my mistake, while sitting at the island, checking work emails.

While scrolling and tapping he said, “You should eat, babe.” Cause I’m always so shaky. He says I’d have anxiety if it actually existed.

I placed the coffee pot back in the machine, picked up his black Sunriver mug to rinse out in the sink. Coffee had spilled along the exterior, and my husband likes clean things, so I must clean this before I pour him another.

I pulled the spigot and the water ran boiling with my hand right beneath. It was a sharp sting, so I yanked my hand back and the mug dropped, then shattered, in the sink. Countless pieces, too many.

“Careful honey,” he said. I turned away from the sink to face him. He put his phone down, and looked at me. Looked at my hands, then my eyes.

He was dressed in business casual, a black long sleeved tee, blue jeans, same outfit every day, every week. Then he said, “Was that my Sunriver mug?”

His favorite mug. His father’s, from their only family vacation. “Yes honey, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.”

He sighed deeply, caressed his stubble.

My husband likes simple things. Where every day is the same because he grew up poor, with instability. His daddy thought methamphetamines were more enticing than raising a son.

“Just clean it up,” he said. Then he picked up his phone. I nodded and turned back to the sink. Laying out a kitchen towel on the counter next to me, I began to pick up the shards and set them on the towel. I could feel my heart, my pulse like a sewing machine, and I heard the slightest sniffle behind me.

While collecting the mug’s remnants I had a thought, “Maybe we can glue it back together—”

“No, just stop,” he said.

My fingers began to flutter, I grabbed quicker and quicker, “But there’s stuff in the shed, I’m sure I could do it if you show me where—”

“Honey!”

My eyes grew hazy, my hands tweaking, my mouth moved, “I don’t have to clean today—or cook or eat, I’ll just do this, fix this if you let me, I promise—”

“Just shut the fuck up—”

“Okay I’m sorry, I’m sorry—fuck!” My finger sliced right into a shard. Blood welled quickly, spilling onto my four carat diamond wedding ring. I gripped my finger to stop the blood, held my tears, and felt my breath beating.

I couldn’t turn to face him, but I heard his chair scraping back, heard his nice, black leather shoes clonk on the tile, the sound growing close to me. I didn’t want him to see the blood, to see the ring, to see grime on his hard earned money. I struggled to get the ring off, wanting to slip it in my apron, but my finger had grown fat and sticky from the warm water.

His breath was warm in my ear now. Slow, always. My husband never panicked about anything.

He leaned over to look at my hand hovering in the sink, just in time to see me pop the ring off too quickly. We watched as it flung from my grasp and volleyed off the sink’s edge, then into the drain.

He sighed deeply. I covered my face like a toddler playing hide and seek.

“I’m sorry, baby, really sorry. I’m—”

“Just stop.” He gently pressed his palm to the small of my back, pushed me to the side. Then he said, “Why don’t you go get some sleep. I’ll clean.”

How sweet. How nice. How come it feels so impolite? Isn’t he looking after me? Yes, of course, because he loves me. I’m the one making this so difficult, I’m the one messing up, I’m the one who needs to calm down.

I leaned against the counter and tried to slow my breathing. Our couples counselor worked with me one on one in our last session when I acted up like this. The counselor held my chest, he said it was to make sure I was breathing deep enough, then told me to list ten tangible things around me.

So, like before, I tried to focus on tangible things.

The cookie jar. The coffee machine. The spilled coffee. The outlet. The garbage disposal switch. My hands. My bloody finger. My capable finger. My finger that can press things.

His hand was digging around in the drain for my diamond ring. Forearm deep, clean black sleeves rolled.

Tangible things, I told myself. My husband is a nice thing. A clean thing. A sweet man, here, in front of me. But me is such a messy thing, we’d get along better if he were messier, maybe even slightly dismembered, so I reached out and pressed the garbage disposal switch.

What followed was his yelling, the garbage disposal yowling, the grind of flesh, then bone, with soft chimes of my diamond ring. My husband tried to pull his hand out, but like a Chinese finger trap it only tugged him closer. His blood soon began spreading like confetti, like an open blender, some even on me.

My breathing began to slow while watching him. Eventually, he extended his arm far enough to shut off the garbage disposal.

“What the fuck, bitch!?”

Slow breathing. Something must’ve come over me. “I’m sorry, baby,” I said. Something psychotic, funny even, “I’m so so sorry, I’m sorry.” I began to laugh, “I’m really fucking sorry!” I laughed so hard that my stomach began to hurt.

He tried to reach for me, but his eyes rolled back and he passed out on the kitchen tile. His lower forearm severed from the drain as he fell, the sound like a shutting suitcase.

I looked at him. Curled up in fetal position. Tangible things. His bloody stub, his ruined tee, his whitening face.

I took a deep, slow inhale, then said, “I’m sorry, baby. Something came over me.”

Something like mirth.