coyotekid

She comes out swinging.

I sit straight up on the couch, pull one of the couch cushions over my crotch because I know what's coming next: her damned puppy is gonna jump on me and squash the boys to jelly. I'm tired of waking up every morning to a forty-pound terrier trying her damndest to ensure I will never have children. Sure enough, the puppy stops, looks at me, and keeps walking because she's got nowhere to jump.

The ex is behind her. She stops, looks at me, curls her lip in disgust and says, "What're you doing?" I'm upright, on the couch, a couch cushion over my crotch, a book in one hand, and I look put out. I know what she's thinking, but that just makes her more of an idiot. If she could SEE the book I was reading, she'd see the title: "On your Own Again: The Down to Earth Guide to Getting Through a Divorce or Separation and Getting on with Your Life." Hardly wank material, that.

I resume reading as if she doesn't exist, and that's when she starts bitching at me about the scissors. Her puppy chewed through the chord of the headphone set she uses to to talk the guy she fucked around on me with, and now she can't find scissors to cut the electrical tape to repair them. This is somehow my fault in her twisted little world.

"Don't fucking bitch at me," I snap at her. I get up to have a cigarette, my mood already soured.

Being divorced and on my own--I'm learning to cope with that. Being divorced and living with this goddamn dragon lady who views me as a parasite even though I'm paying most of the fucking bills in what is still OUR house, I'm not so ready for. "I really have to get the fuck out of this place," I tell myself, "for better or for worse, richer or poorer..."