Our lives were a fucking circus. Coke on the nightstand, restraints on the bedframe, every attempt at conversation exploding like a flat of dynamite under Brobdingnagian sparklers on the Fourth of July. Cats unfed, bills unpaid, friends uncontacted, hummus or popsicles or pudding the only things left we could even attempt to eat. I would kill him soon, or he would kill me, or we would murder-suicide one another. Who would be the one and who would be the other? Not wanting to find out, I duct taped his mouth one morning while he disco-napped, shoved both cats in one carrier, grabbed what remained of our stash and left.

When I returned that evening the dishes were washed, the sheets changed, the windows open. He was cooking pasta primavera with a rash around his lips. "Hey, baby," he said and kissed me on the cheek. He wore an apron. I released the felines and he poured food into shiny bowls for them. He kneeled in front of me and unbuckled one of my platform Mary Janes and pulled it off so that I felt like a reverse Cinderella. He tossed it down, smiled without looking at me, hummed as he walked back to the kitchen. Food smelled good for the first time in ages. I sat there in one shoe, anticipating.