Fury

I’d seen her angry. I’ve seen her very angry. This was different. This was fury.

I’d just gotten out of the shower and she was glaring. Then I noticed. She was brandishing a large kitchen-knife. Did I mention the glaring?

The texts. She must have seen the texts. They were all innocent. Shirley could sometimes be a bit flirtatious with me and I could sometimes be a bit flirtatious with Shirley. But it was all in good fun. None of it meant anything.

“You promised you wouldn’t and you went ahead and did it anyway.”

I’m there, naked and facing off against a furious woman with a knife and suddenly “she cut off his head with a carving knife” pops into my head and I smile as the tune bounces around.

“You think this is funny? I’ve warned you.”

“Honey. For the love of god. I wasn’t thinking.”

“You weren’t thinking? I’m sick and I’m tired of you not thinking. I’ve had it with you. I don’t care what happens but I’m cutting it off. It’s what’s doing your thinking anyway.”

She took a step closer.

“Honey. I swear. Never again. Never. Again.”

“You get one more chance. It happens again, you’re never going to pee standing up again. Do. You. Understand?”

“I understand.”

She looked at it. All shriveled up in my panic. Although it looks like I might need a smaller knife next time.

She turned to leave.

“You might want to start now. Put the damn seat down.”

And she was gone.