I check his fridge for other bitches.
Ketchup
Busch. The cheap shit, naturally.
Strawberry jelly.
An egg.
And vodka.
He is a tequila man, and this bottle of razz is half empty.
I allow the silver door to clash into his eggshell wall and gash a chasm.
He is absorbing the news at a volume that I’ve labeled, “geriatric enjoyment.” We are still invading Iraq and shit. I wonder who he’s been invading.
“Why do you have vodka?” the liquid sloshes as I clench the red razz neck and wish it were his.
He buys a second. “Huh?” an ass-scratch of an answer. Asshole.
“The vodka. You never drink vodka. Why do you have it?” Hands on hips. Typical chick stance; bitch bordered by triangled limbs.
His toes wriggle inside his polyester work socks with the gold tips. They remind me of Achilles. Except Mr. Vodka sells his weakness with his feet. I wish I were his weak heel. A tender tendon.
“Got it at the grocery store.”
In my mind I have committed vodka homicide; a razz attack that splits his limbs with glass shards and alleys of alcohol that erode an acid passage and boil every cell. He has a real big red razz stain on his shit shag rug in the shape of his fucking Bacardi buzz.
“That’s real fuckin’ funny.” I sidle my eyes icily into his.
“What?”
I’m thinking the jail time might be worth the swift demolition of his jaw. He makes me wish men couldn’t talk.
“You know what I mean. Why do you have a fucking bottle of raspberry vodka? You don’t drink this chick shit. And isn’t this over your Busch budget?”
I imagine his new bush budget. She probably has this 90’s trash tramp stamp of some fucking Chinese symbol that she thinks says, “river,” or “strength.” And Lucite shoes she wears to show off her French pedicure. I’ve given hotdogs better blow jobs than her nasty-ass gap tooth could handle.
“It’s really not that big a deal.”
I wonder if I should look for hairs of hers. Some long blond curls. They would probably glitter. And smell like TRESemmé. Shit, they probably sing country music.
He has assigned himself to the television dutifully. Truck crash in expressway construction. Egg recall. New studies show benefits of red wine.
The vodka bottle clinks against the black marble countertop as I set it aside; the sound of resignation.
My eyes trace his checkered kitchen tiles as I force the slow burn of hate. I meditate on the waste he’s made of me. The small taste he gave me, and the wait he made me.
I am in his fridge shelves of shit. I am his leftovers. I am his rottens. I am his forgottens.
I close his fridge and hope all that shit poisons him.
