tell) existed mainly in his mind. He’d convinced a few people to hire him as a marketing-type consulting person of some sort and he was adamant he needed a plush office to be taken seriously. So I got him one by the Fox lot in Century City. He needed to have that office feng-shuied, by the way. Never been to Asia, but he needed it to be feng-shuied to be on trend. I thought, If this is what will make you happy and productive, you do you. Neither happened.
I started handing him ways to make me happy, gradually making them simpler and simpler. “What was the name of that soul food place we saw on Sepulveda?” I’d ask. “Maybe we should go there some night.”
He upped his game, however, as a prolific cheater. I was resigned to it, more annoyed by his moping around than his cheating. I’d hear the garage door and tense up, not sure what mood he’d be in. I distinctly remember yelling, “I don’t care who sucks your dick, just come home and be nice to me.”
Yet I would suddenly decide to get randomly, epically jealous. I was doing laundry one day and going through his pockets. Since it wasn’t his money he was running around with, he could always be counted upon to put cash or credit cards through the wash. Sitting cross-legged on our bedroom floor, I found a piece of paper reading ANGELINA, 818-whatever-whatever.
The ragey-rage set in. I knew he was fucking other people, but finding that number set me off. I decided to stash the number on top of the armoire in our bedroom, where it sat, waiting for the perfect moment for me to go ballistic when he accused me of something. Exhibit A: You’re a dick. Prosecution rests. Case closed.
It took a couple of weeks, but sure enough, he handed me just the right opportunity to go for it. I pulled down the number.
“Is this the bitch?” I screamed, sounding like Rowdy Roddy Piper from the WWF. “Angelina? Is this the bitch you’re fucking?”
He laughed. Right in my face. I became unhinged, fueled by embarrassment and anger.
“You think you’re gonna call this bitch?” I screamed. “YOU THINK YOU’RE GONNA CALL THIS BITCH?”
Reader, I put the paper in my mouth. I chomped and chewed until I could swallow.
“You’re not calling this bitch,” I said, coughing a little.
Chris paused. “Angelina is the name of the soul food restaurant you asked me to find.”
I blinked. “Well,” I said.
“How does that taste?”
Another time we went nine days straight without speaking. Ghosts in a split-level house, finding reasons not to be in the same room. In the midst of this, I had a red-carpet premiere that involved some sort of love theme, so I needed a date. Reporters had been picking up a “trouble in paradise” vibe with us, and I thought I had to keep up appearances.
Hours before the event, he was downstairs watching TV and I was upstairs thinking, How do I even get him to talk to me? And I hatched a plan I am not proud of. “I bet if I was injured he would have to talk to me.”
I went to the middle landing and then down a couple steps. By that time, I had done a couple of action movies, so I knew how to fake a fall without being injured. I tucked and rolled, slamming the wall where I knew he was sitting on the other side.
“Baby!” he said, running to me.
“Don’t you baby me,” I said, screaming and pretending to fight back tears. I pulled out the performance of my life. “You don’t even want to talk to me and now I’ve got to go to this premiere all alone and I’m injured.”
He went to the premiere. We smiled for the cameras. We played our roles.
My drama moves weren’t always successes. Like the night I ran away from home. Yes, my adult home. You know the moment in the movies where the girl runs off and the guy runs after her? Well, I tried my hand at that. Midfight, I literally ran out of my own house in shorts and a T-shirt. No wallet, no phone. I just started running, assuming Chris was going to run after me. But I forgot that I was in decent shape, so I just kept going.
I ended up on the backside of a park, one where he played basketball. He’ll come find me here, I thought. I propped myself against a