"You are so fucked," is what she said. When someone makes a threat that way you suck the good air into your lungs as fast as you can because you know the next breath is poison.
So I give her one of these, "waddai du?" faces and I start a DMA on my corpus callosum, racking my brain for what it is she's pissed about before I go hypoxic and pass out. You and I both know you can't commit suicide by holding your breath. But I'm going to turn a little cyanotic so she'll know she's having an effect. She won't stop unless she knows she's inflicted injury.
I blurt out a quart of air along with the words, "It's not garbage day?" Unfortunately there's a mirror in front of me and I can see the ridiculous smile on my face, something like Bill Murray playing Forrest Gump doing The Joker.
Hey, I'm the one holding the razor. I'm the one with half of face of shaving cream zebra striped in blue red from where I opened a vein when she barged in threatening to tear out my liver through my nostrils. Damn. That's not half as bad as the damage I might have done. I'm afraid so to look down because I just got out of the shower figuring I'd be alone in the bathroom, so why not shave naked? Why do I have to get dressed to impress myself? So I'm standing there with something purposely sharp at my neck and the thought flashed for a second whoever was coming in shouldn't see my gonads--naked and left handed, the razor indeed in that hand gets shot down between my legs as if hiding my dick behind a two-inch steel blade is a really good idea.
I see the headline: MAN FEARING WIFE CUTS OFF OWN BALLS
I say, "I forgot to tell you your hair was nice missed your birthday didn't send in your renewal to 'House Beautiful' forgot our anniversary oh what a nice tattoo your sister got, my brother has one of a giant squid eating a baby's head."
"Well if you don't know, I'm not going to tell you," she says, and I'm about to compliment her logic, because not knowing what makes her hate me keeps the missiles in their silos and the world safe for democracy now that the lactose intolerant Chinese have all the Cheeze Whiz they need to join the dairy cartel.
And I love her. When we were younger, I loved walking into restaurants watching everyone stare. I loved that she was mine on the beach. I loved she knew who Harlan Ellison was and that a stock Corvette is faster than most Ferraris. I love that of all the people in the world she could torture in the cyclic estrogen driven nightmare she has for emotions once a month, she picked me. I could have been any idiot chopping of his balls with a BIC safety razor, but I'm Ozymandius. I'm Apollo. Zeus. She makes me God.
I say, "I love you," as hard as I can, try to turn my smile into something that feels like a real life.
Her eyes narrow, lips purse. "You're not getting off that easy," she says. So I put down the razor and wipe the cream from my half-shaven face with a towel. Arms out, I'm Tom Cruise in Risky Business. Slide on the sunglasses next to the sink.
Sometimes you just gotta say, "What the fuck."
I tell her okay when she gets out of her clothes. I tell her I'm sorry and I'll make it up. Do whatever she wants. Never, ever find out what it is that set her off in the first place.
Dear god, save me from being in love with this woman.