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Brian liked to sit at the island after I’d finished cleaning up and talk about his day. He didn’t like staring at clutter on the counter or dirty dishes in the sink while he told me how much he’d accomplished, how much money he’d made, or how brilliant he was that day. He didn’t like the picture frames facing the wrong way or the salt and pepper shakers left out on the table instead of put away in the spice cabinet while he droned on and on about his day, never once asking me about mine.
The anger and shame I feel over letting myself become this person for someone who didn’t care about anyone but himself makes my hands shake, and all sorts of irrational thoughts start running through my head. Quickly reaching for my phone sitting on the counter next to the sink, I go to my contacts and hit dial, clutching the phone tightly in my shaky hand as I bring it up to my ear.
Ariel answers on the first ring. “Everything hurts and I’m dying. You’re interrupting a very relaxing bubble bath, so this better be good,” she says.
I can hear the splash of water and shake my head at her lack of formalities, even though she can’t see me. “A normal person says hello when they answer the phone.”
“I think we’ve already established I’m not a normal person. Did you call me just to lecture me on telephone etiquette?”
I sigh, staring down at the dirty dishes in the sink.
“No. I called because I have a stack of dishes in my sink that my hands are itching to wash so they aren’t here in the morning when I wake up. But I don’t know if I want to wash them because it’s the right thing to do or because it’s what I’ve done for the last thirteen years just to make Brian happy,” I ramble, feeling like a fool as soon as the words leave my mouth.
“Are you having a breakdown? Do I need to call nine-one-one?” Ariel asks.
“I’m not having a breakdown. Maybe it’s a breakthrough. Or maybe I’m just losing my mind. It’s dirty dishes. And not even a lot of dirty dishes. There are two plates, one pot, one pan, and two spoons. Why is this so hard?”
It’s Ariel’s turn to sigh, and I hear more water splashing.
“I’m coming over.”
“I don’t need you to come over. I’m fine,” I tell her, glancing over at the salt shaker next to the sink and wondering what it would feel like to unscrew the cap and just dump the contents out all over the counter.
“I told you this would happen. I told you that you needed to get this out of your system. Get angry. Cry. Lose your shit all over the place. You didn’t, and now look what happened: You can’t even leave a few dirty dishes in the sink without thinking you’re losing your mind. I’m coming over and we’re lighting shit on fire,” she says with determination and a hint of excitement.
Reaching across the counter, I smack over a picture frame that holds a photo of Brian and me at a cooking class we went to a few years ago.
“What was that? What are you doing?” Ariel asks when she hears the smack of the wooden frame hit the counter.
“I just knocked over a picture. It’s no longer facing east,” I tell her with a slightly hysterical giggle as I grab the salt shaker and unscrew the lid, dumping the contents all over the counter.
I quickly turn and rush over to the kitchen table, kicking each chair as I move around it until they’re all askew. I’m still laughing like a lunatic but can’t stop the chaos now that I’ve let it loose. I stalk over to the lower kitchen cabinets, opening the first one I come to and yanking out all of the pots and pans tossing them behind me, the clamor of them hitting the expensive tile Brian insisted we import in from Italy so loud that I can barely hear what Ariel is saying.
“What the hell are you doing?” she shouts.
“I just messed up the kitchen chairs, dumped salt all over the counter, and now I’m throwing everything in the cupboards onto the floor.”
Holding the phone between my shoulder and cheek, I jerk open the silverware drawer, pull it completely out and flip it upside down.
I laugh louder as forks, knives, spoons, and spatulas rain down around my feet, thankful that when I checked on Anastasia before I came down, she was curled up in the middle of her bed with a pair of earbuds in, the music blasting so loudly that I could hear the muffled beat of drums from the doorway.
“Back away from the kitchen, Cindy. Do NOT do anything else until I get there. I need to see this shit in person. I’m bringing matches,” Ariel says in an excited voice.
