like a video game character stuck in a glitch. He’s been strolling along, hands clasped behind his back, burying land mines with finesse. He’s going to win this, like he wins everything. I think of his gold Maserati and my Saturn sharing curb space.
I groan and nearly give in when I sit up in bed and pluck off the Skittle he’s left half-melted to my arm, leaving behind colorful mermaid scales. Nicholas doesn’t work today but he’s gone somewhere else after dropping off those stupid cookies, probably off to braid his mother’s hair. Does he even eat the Skittles or does he simply dump them there, trying to piss me off?
I’m tempted to pack my bags and go right now, but that would be playing into what he wants. If anyone’s going to pay Deborah back for three hundred customized champagne flutes with N & N on them, it’s going to be him, out of guilt, after he dumps me. Afterward, I’ll hock my engagement ring and take a well-deserved honeymoon by myself in celebration. A singlemoon.
I’m thinking of ways I can get him to break first, like withholding sex, but truly I don’t think that would faze him. It’s been nine weeks since the last time he unenthusiastically gave me the business. If it weren’t for the perks of shorter, infrequent periods, my strict adherence to a birth control regimen would be for no purpose whatsoever.
Maybe I can set up a fake online profile to catfish him. When he falls for it I can point at my handiwork and get righteously angry. I’ll storm off. His mother will burst into tears. I’ll take a picture of the moment and have it framed.
I’m going to blame the Skittles for what happens next.
I troop into the bathroom with a pair of scissors, pull down a hank of hair over my forehead, and snip it off before I can lose my nerve. The eyes in my reflection are wide and maniacal and I love it. I love the Naomi who can do things like this and not give a shit. Nicholas doesn’t like bangs? Fantastic. I don’t like Nicholas.
I notice my new bangs are slightly crooked, so I snip them to even them out. I end up overcorrecting so I have to snip again, and what I’m left with is not at all like Brandy’s cute hairstyle.
I’m left with a sight that makes me mutter, “Ah, fudge.”
It’s even worse than being a kid and your frugal mom, who only goes to the salon to get her own hair done, puts a bowl over your head and cuts beneath the rim. I look like I got my hair cut by bending too close to a shredder. And there are two layers to the bangs, somehow. If I try to even them out any more it’ll be chewed off almost to the scalp.
I stand in my empty house for a minute and listen to the whoosh of car tires spraying through leftover rain, estimating how far ahead of me Nicholas is, how many moves I need to make in order to catch up. I peer outside and observe a suspicious development: my flat tire has pumped up back to life. Either someone changed it for me or I imagined the whole ordeal. Right now, the latter seems more likely.
I see that he didn’t wash the dishes like he promised, and I almost admire the evil touch. Neglecting to wash dishes is one thing. Voluntarily saying you’re going to do it and then not doing it is an act of hostility.
He has, however, rinsed out his coffeepot, because he’s the only one who uses it. More proof that he’s being an ass on purpose. I place it back in the sink and decorate it with maple syrup. Then I write a message to him on the whiteboard, telling him I can’t wait to marry him. I call him Nicky, which I’ve never done before, and after I get over the dry heaves that this gives me, I draw two interlocking hearts.
Let’s see what you think of that.
Smirking, I tunnel into my closet and emerge from it in the most glorious anti-Nicholas costume I can find: a Steelers hoodie that belonged to my ex-boyfriend. I found it in my drawer two months ago, and I think it was Nicholas’s remark that I don’t know anything about sports and therefore had no reason to hold on to the hoodie that prompted me to tuck it away for