Domestic Fiction

I wave my hand in her face distorted with wine
telling her to keep her mouth shut, that she's
blowing it out of proportion
and that she'll regret it in the morning
when we sober up naked next to each other.
She doesn't seem to agree.
She slaps me across the face.
I grab the hair at the nape of her neck
with my left hand and hold my right forearm
across her chest and biceps so she can't
raise her arms again to hit me.
"Are you going to calm down?"
She snarls, gnashes her teeth, spits in my face.
I realize it's a losing battle as usual
so I let her loose.
"I'm going to take a piss. Sit tight, we'll talk it out."

On my way to the bathroom I swear off beer
for the fifteenth time that month.
The bloated feeling and having to urinate
every twenty minutes once the seal is broken
really ruin the fun for me.
There's a fly caught in a web behind the toilet.
It gave up trying to escape, it's just twitching its legs.
The spider isn't in sight, but that's a false sense of security.
I jiggle and wonder which of the two I identify with more
at that particular time. It's a little bit of both I decide.

I rinse my hands off in the sink, and as I'm drying
my hands on the towel hanging from the nail
next to the mirror I hear the sound of a zipper
being undone. At first, in my drunken optimism
I think maybe she's getting undressed
for some prime-time make-up sex
but get sucked back to reality
when I realize that the fly on her jeans
is not long enough to make that sound for so long.
"Oh fuck..." I mutter to my reflection after it dawns on me.
I lock eyes with the ghost in the mirror.
Put on your game face, Brando.
You have some work to do
if you're going to make it through the night.
But do you really even want to?
I turn the faucet back on and splash
some water on my face, not bothering
to dry my hands again.

By the time I get back to my bedroom
she already has my shotgun out of it's
leather case and is backing herself into a corner
a wild gleam in her eye not lost through eons
of evolution that says "Now what, motherfucker?"
louder and clearer than I've ever heard it.

"Honey, let's not be rash..."
"Don't tell me what to do, Dave!"
"I'm not, only making a suggestion."
There's a good twelve feet between us.
She could get a round off before I get to her
if I try to rush her. I decide to stick to the original plan.

The butt of the gun is raised to her shoulder
and I notice that what they say is true:
The muzzle of a firearm looks huge
when it's aimed directly at you from close range.
She pumps the shotgun and it makes that
well-oiled machine noise as the cartridges
are cycled through the guts of the weapon.
Hollywood teaches people how to do that.
The first round is ejected from the side
of the breech and bounces on the carpet.

"There, it's unloaded. Now lower it, Sweetie."
"No it's not. That was just the shell in the chamber."
Hollywood teaches them too much.
I try to think on the fly, but can't come up with an answer.
She breaks the silence for me:
"I know you, Dave. You'd keep one in the barrel
just in case you had to fire quickly.
You're predictable as the rest once the code is cracked."
OK, so maybe this one wasn't Hollywood's fault after all.
I break eye contact with her for the first time
since walking in and turn my head to the side.
She's got me beat. The judges don't bother
raising their score cards.

The next words I say will have to be my best.
"Look, we're both drunk. Let's just go to bed
and pretend this never happened."
They're not my best. Not even close.
I left her open to jump all over me.
She does.
"You expect me to sleep next to you
in that fucking bed after what you've done?"

Why'd I bring up the bed? Stupid mistake.
My Judas just walked in on my Christ's dinner party.
The kiss of death delivered.
Click.

Suddenly her face loses that all-knowing expression.
The blood drains from it instantly and her eyes
scream for help from the gods as she pulls the trigger
again and again in a desperate attempt to blow me away.
Nothing is happening, it's just that clicking noise over and over.
The safety.
She doesn't know where the safety is, or that she has
to turn it off in order to fire the damn thing.
Hollywood keeps some secrets.

I seize the opportunity and dash forward, charging
like a starting linebacker. We wrestle for possession.
Her hands won't loosen their grip. She tries biting me.
I don't want to punch her so I grab hold of the barrel
with my left hand and beat it against the side of her head
a few times until she's forced to use one hand to block
the blows. It's a dirty move, but I have no choice.
And I can still honestly say I never laid a hand on a woman.
With one hand off of the shotgun it's easy to rip it free.
I pump it two more times, emptying the ammunition onto the floor.

The same grin that she had previously takes over my face.
Part of me wants to tell her she's a fool for not turning
the safety switch off. I reevaluate the wisdom in gloating
and settle for winning the pissing match.
She rubs her head and curses me out for fifteen seconds
without stopping once to take a breath.
A match made in Heaven, alright.

"I'll call you a cab."
"I can drive myself home, Dave."
"Knock yourself out. But call me when you're home safe."
"Fine. Asshole."

She gathers her things and storms down the stairs.
I hear the door slam and her car start.
The gears grind as abuses the clutch in her intoxicated rage.
Gravel kicks up as she peels out of my driveway.

I laugh uncomfortably to myself, turn off my phone
and crack the last beer of the night.
The best drink is always the one you almost didn't live to enjoy.

Sleep comes easier than one would expect.
I wake to five voicemails--
the first two angry, the next two apologetic
the last one pleading for another chance.
I'll give it to her.
I have to.
The craziest love burns the hottest.

We'll last three more months
until we finally give up on each other.
People say it was a mutual decision
when they've been dumped.
It's only fair to allow the loser
to use that defense mechanism.
Let's hear it for the home team.

------------------------------------------------


I could write a three-part novel about
the things that went on in that house.
I won't bother.
Settle for this little tidbit.
Sleep tight.