As soon as I’d opened our apartment door, I could hear the sound of the bedroom television. My mood—brought upon by my first meeting with the good doctor—deflated. I glanced at my watch. 12:37PM. What is Jack doing home? I asked myself. He should still be at work.
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I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. I hate Jack. I firmly believe he’s the ultimate jackhole. First, he ambushes me—after a long night at the hospital—with news that our seven-year relationship is over. He then storms out without another word. Next, he ambushes me—after a long afternoon with no Xanax— with the news that he’s already seeing someone else. He then storms out again without another word. Now, after I’ve finally—with the help of a dreamy therapist—decided to calmly accept my fate, he ambushes me for a third time.
I wasn’t ready for this yet. My plans for a relaxing bubble bath followed by a leisurely lunch of contemporary Italian cuisine at Pelago were now thrown out of the window. An afternoon of tipsy shopping at Ralph Lauren after drinks on the 96th floor of the John Hancock? Forget about it. This afternoon was supposed to prepare me for Jack’s return. It was supposed to ease my spirit so I could rationally participate in the dialogue that he and I so desperately needed to have.
Not yet ready to face him, I retreated to the kitchen. I figured I could drown my anxiety in the final slice of chocolate cake left over from dinner two nights ago. When I opened the door of the stainless-steel Sub-Zero, I was further disappointed to discovered the cake was missing. Apparently, he’d eaten it.
While I’d be seeking refuge from my emotional anguish, Jack was at home. Eating my last slice of chocolate cake. I yelled an expletive and slammed the refrigerator door. To my surprise, Jack stood behind it stone-faced. On his lower lip, a dab of chocolate frosting. In his hand, a crumb filled dessert plate.
There we were. Face to face. Ready to begin round two.
All together now:
I hate Jack.
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