Michele Bardsley

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We were separated. Me and The Husband (TM). As in, he didn’t live in the house where I lived with my children and newly acquired cats.

Sorta.

He popped by whenever the hell he wanted. Just to blow up shit. Or drop off $5 for groceries. (Yes, he really did that.) Or sometimes, he allowed me to use the car that I made the payments on.

It sucked.

One fine evening, he stumbled in from the garage and into the kitchen with his face looking like someone beat the ever living shit out of him.

Guess what? Someone beat the ever living shit out of him.

But also guess what?

He was defending the honor of a woman. At the bar, she was being harassed by some mean dude and he stepped in to save her.

He was a hero!

Also, he needed to get to an emergency clinic because his face was swollen and cut and his mouth was kinda hanging open weird. Oh, and he was bleeding all over the kitchen floor.

Look at that. Now I have to mop.

I hate mopping.

I get him into the car and take him to one of those minute clinic care places.

Then we go to my house. I’m sure we argued or “had a debate” or something. Memories are tricky and my mind routinely deletes data, especially trauma, because that’s how I cope. But I do know eventually he left.

Later, my best friend and I chat on the phone and I tell her the story of the asshole— sorry, hero — who bled all over the kitchen floor. The conversation went something like this:

“You don’t have to do anything for him. He’s a grown-assed man.”

“He was injured.”

Long, heavy sigh. “Why did he go to your house? Why didn’t he go seek medical attention?”

“Because … um. I don’t know.”