Day 8

“Could you maybe chew a little quieter?” I ask him as we sit on the couch watching reruns of The Office. He stares at me with furled eyebrows like a confused child, “Chew. Qui-e-ter?” he asks making certain to say each syllable. I smile in a southern bless your heart manner, “Yes, that’s what I said,” I respond like a mother refraining from spanking their child when they talk back. He clears his throat, pops a pretzel in his mouth and moves his jaw in a slower motion. “Quiet enough for you?” he asks. I make the kiss my teeth sound, “Yeah. Perfection, keep it that way please.” I roll my eyes and he continues to slowly chew on the pretzels in an effort to annoy me. It’s working.

I let out a breath and walk over to the kitchen for a snack; I’m suddenly craving cereal. I pour some cereal into the bowl and open the fridge to grab the carton of milk. I take out the carton and it feels way lighter than it should in my hand. I turn it upside down to pour into my bowl, but as suspected, it’s empty. “Darren,” I say, but he’s too busy laughing with a mouthful of pretzels at one of Jim’s pranks on Dwight. I sigh, “Darren!” I yell. “What!” he screams back. “Did you finish the milk and put the empty carton back in the fridge again!” I ask. “Huh?” he says. I can feel my face burning red. I walk in front of the TV and shut it off. “What the hell Lana! Dwight was about to fight himself!” he yells. I let air out of my nostrils. For a second I think I see smoke come out like a bull in a cartoon when they’re ready to attack the Matador. “You can watch it later,” I say.

I hold the empty carton of milk and shove it in his face. “Now, I asked you a question. Did you finish the milk and put the empty carton back in the fridge again!” Darren leans back on the couch and folds his arms. “I might have,” he says. I could kill him. “And you didn’t bother to go to the store and get milk so maybe I can have some too?” I ask. “Come on Lana, we’re in quarantine! it’s not safe out there.” If this virus doesn’t kill me, a few more days of quarantine with Darren sure as shit will. “You can still go to the grocery store Darren,” I say. “And risk catching the virus? Do you want me to die?” he asks. Yes. God, yes. “Darren, this virus isn’t going to kill you. You’re 28 years old and in perfect health, meanwhile I’m the one with asthma issues risking my life everytime I have to go get something you want,” I plead. “Here we go again with the asthma thing,” he says, “it’s not my fault your lungs suck.” And there it was, the straw that breaks the camel’s back. I throw the empty carton of milk at him.

“You selfish prick,” I scream as I pace, “I’ve had it. I’ve had enough of your whiny, child-like behavior. You’re 28 fucking years old, grow the fuck up! I’m so sick of having a child instead of a boyfriend. Do this, do that, get this, get that. I’m tired Darren. I’m really fucking tired. All you do is whine and sit on your lazy ass all day long trying to become TIk Tok famous, while I work to pay for everything. I rue the day I was hypnotized by your stupid abs and baby blue eyes. Now, the trance is offically broken and guess what? Fuck you Darren!” I’m breathing heavily and my entire body is shaking. I reach for my inhaler in my pocket and take a hit in an effort to catch my breath. “Hey, hey, hey babe...babe,” he says, “are you on your period or something? Calm down.”

PSA to all men and boys: NEVER tell an angry woman to calm down, nor question if her anger is correlated with her period. I promise, it will not end well for you. Don’t be a Darren.

The blood rushes to my brain, and for the next few moments I black out. I briefly recall going to the kitchen and grabbing a knife. I vaguely remember Darren’s asshole face full of fear as he pleads for me to calm down. “Babe, babe, please,” I hear in the distance, but I don’t care. All I remember is a high-pitched scream followed by blissful silence. When I come to, I have a knife in my hand, and Darren’s body is sleeping in a pool of blood on the floor. “Well fuck,” I say. I rub my eyes and throw the knife into the kitchen sink where I wash my hands. I watch as the crimson blood swirls like a hypnotic spiral down the drain. I grab my dry bowl of cereal from the counter and make my way to the couch. I turn on the TV, press play and watch Dwight fight himself. I laugh as I eat my dry cereal. “Stupid Dwight.”