I woke up this morning to find a can of Budlight in the trash can. When I went to the refrigerator to make the baby his bottle, I found another can (full and still closed) in there.
My silence was loud enough that he knew something was wrong, and he asked about it.
”There’s a beer in the fridge,” I replied.
Now, here’s the thing. I have nothing against drinking. I have nothing against smoking. I have nothing against most anything as long as it does not negatively affect your life. My husband, however, cannot do anything without becoming obsessed with it, and I have repeatedly asked him not to bring beer into our house. He doesn’t drink just one a night; he drinks six a night… and then the next night, too. He doesn’t smoke just one cigarette. He smokes a pack a day.
”You didn’t see me with it last night?” he asked, as if I shouldn’t be surprised by its appearance. I probably shouldn’t be, but there’s still a part of my heart that thinks that I might be somewhat even close to as important to him as a beverage. I cannot believe that I have been reduced to this: being compared to a pack of cigarettes and a beer. ”I bought two when I went to the store. I only spent nine dollars and some change, and I only drank one last night.”
I didn’t reply, because the reply I wanted to give didn’t quite seem appropriate. It would’ve come out something like, ”Oh, okay. Since that’s okay for you, I’m going to start having affairs, but don’t worry. I’ll only sleep with one other guy a night.”
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