You Don’t Know Shit

“Oh, I’m the asshole?” Eddie yelled, two inches from my face. Maybe only an inch and three quarters, if I counted the veins popping on his forehead. “Bitch, you don’t know shit about me!”

I thought about last night. Or yesterday afternoon, I should say, when I cooked dinner for three hours because it was my birthday and I wanted something nice, but Eddie came home an hour late and barely touched any of it because he went out for beers and wings with his buddies after work.

I thought about last week when we didn’t have any gas for three days because Eddie tossed the bills on the passenger seat of his car the week before and never bothered to put them in the mailbox.

I thought about how he’s “bustin’ his hump out there,” but at the end of the month always asks if I can cover his part of the rent, “just this time.”

I thought about that spot on my ribs that doesn’t hurt anymore. At least, not much. Not some of the time.

I thought about May 18th, when I spent my lunch break at the drugstore, looking for the perfect anniversary card, and when I gave it to him later he asked what the occasion was.

I thought about all the puke I’d cleaned out of the sink. The tub. Off the bathroom floor.

I thought about my friends, if they’re even still my friends because it’s been ages since I went out with anybody except Eddie. Or hell, even with Eddie, for that matter.

And I thought about the first time I met him, when he said “hey you’re pretty cute for a girl in glasses,” and I probably should have admitted, right then and there, what I knew about him already. But I hadn’t.

“You’re right, Eddie.” I stepped back and turned toward the bedroom. “I don’t know shit about you. But I know one thing.”

“What?” he barked, as I closed the door behind me.

Under my breath, I muttered, “I know where you keep your gun, asshole.”

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