(A darkly humorous short story)

They got married in a courthouse in. No flowers, no witnesses, no cake—just two legally-recognized adults promising to ruin each other’s lives in sickness, health, and hangovers.

It was, admittedly, a promising start.

Twelve years later, they had lived in ten different places—only one of which had their names on a deed. The others included:

• A garage with a futon and a mildew problem

• A mechanic’s shop office that doubled as a sauna in summer

• A camper where the bed converted into a kitchen, bathroom, and existential crisis

Home, sweet hell.

He was an alcoholic. Not the charming kind who wrote poetry and wore scarves, but the sort who collected DUIs like Pokémon cards and somehow managed to keep a loaded handgun within arm’s reach at all times. Safety first. Especially when drunk.

In between court dates and jail stints, he’d make vague promises about quitting, getting clean, or “really focusing this time.” One glorious stretch, he did go a few months without drinking. It was during this rare moment of sobriety that he decided to accuse his wife—his long-suffering, ride-or-die, slept-in-a-camper-with-him wife—of having an affair.

Because nothing screams “clarity” like alcohol withdrawal and a vivid imagination.

He became obsessed. Started playing detective. Rifled through her phone and tablet like a paranoid raccoon. Interpreted every emoji like it was Morse code for “I’m cheating.” He was convinced she had an “agenda,” as if she were some Bond villain with a clipboard and a plan.

The truth? Her grand agenda was to sleep eight uninterrupted hours, keep the lights on, and maybe, just maybe, not die of a stress-induced aneurysm.

Eventually, he vanished—poof—like a magician who forgot to come back after the trick. For two solid months, he became a ghost with a mustache and a data plan, refusing to speak, text, or acknowledge her existence. Not a fight. Not a scream. Just silence. Which, frankly, was more peaceful than it should have been.

She kept working. Kept paying bills. Kept eating dinner on the same side of the couch because his side still smelled like false promises and beef jerky.

She thought about Rico—the forklift driver at her job. The one she occasionally sent texts to when she needed pallets moved. He was short and skinny, and she was completely uninterested. Which, of course, made him the perfect person to be accused of having an affair with.

When her husband finally resurfaced, it wasn’t with flowers or an apology. It was with a theory. A crystal ball theory, to be precise. According to him, his psychic gut had confirmed everything. Case closed. Adultery via forklift driver.

What followed was a performance worthy of community theater. He wept. He made speeches. He even brought up his sister who had a “plan” to help him stay safe—from her. Because clearly, she was the danger in the relationship. Not the guy who once tried to fix a broken toilet with duct tape and denial.

And that, friends, was the final straw.

Not the DUIs. Not the guns. Not even the months of silence.

It was being labeled the threat after surviving his chaos with nothing but sarcasm and an increasingly impressive ability to disassociate during arguments.

She didn’t slam a door. She didn’t throw his stuff out. She didn’t even raise her voice.

She just sat down one night, poured herself a glass of something cheap and deserved, and whispered aloud to no one in particular:

“I am too old for this shit.”