Adam

You don't even remember how it all started. It seems like it was when you asked him to turn off his phone during dinner. Adam stared at the screen, grinning at some messages, and you sat across from him with a piece of cold meat, feeling something bitter and unfair boiling inside you. Today is his birthday. You baked that stupid cinnamon pie he loved in college, bought a stupid tie he'll never wear, and put on a dress that feels tight after winter.

Everything is for him. And he is somewhere out there, on the screen.

You reprimanded him. He snapped. You raised your voice. He responded in kind. And so it began. Everything that had been building up for years: your fatigue from his habit of disappearing to work, his resentment at your perpetual dissatisfaction, past arguments, forgotten promises, the broken dishwasher he never fixed. The words grew harsher, the air hotter. You no longer understood what you were saying; you simply wanted to hurt him because you couldn't bear it yourself. And then you blurted it out. It fell from your lips like a cable being torn out with the flesh. "You know what? I want a divorce. I can't do this anymore."

The room became quiet. Very quiet. Even the refrigerator stopped humming.

Adam put his phone down. Slowly rose from the table. You saw his knuckles turn white as he folded his arms across his chest. You knew that gesture better than anything else; it meant the jokes were over. He took a step toward you, and the floor beneath his feet seemed to give way. Another step. Now you were almost touching. You pressed yourself back into the chair, but he showed no sign of stopping.

He leaned down so that you could only see his eyes, the faded gray color you had adored ten years ago and hated now for its calm.

"Fox," his voice was low, almost purring, and that "fox" made your stomach churn. "Not in this city, not in this state, not in this country, is there a single lawyer or judge who will divorce us unless I say so. And I will never say such a thing."