“Jesus, Christ,” Bug said as I set the groceries on the counter. “How long is dinner gonna take? I’m fuckin’ starving.”
“Lovely to see you, too, darling,” I said, knowing that I was taking the risk of pissing Bug off, but unwilling to just let his rudeness slide.
He must have realized that he’d really been rude. “It was nice of you to offer to cook dinner,” he mumbled as he left the kitchen.
I was about to get dinner going when I looked at the sink and realized that it was completely full of dirty dishes. The fuck I was going to do them. I mixed up some cornbread, stirred in some finely chopped jalapeño and tomato, and put it in the oven to bake. I went outside, stepping over empty beer bottles on the back patio, and turned on the propane grill to let it warm up. The bagged salad I’d brought wouldn’t take more than a minute or two to throw together, so I figured I had a little time.
I found Bug in the living room, watching a television show about Navy SEALS.
“Want a drink?” I asked, hoping that I could knock him out sooner, rather than later.
“Is the Pope Catholic?”
I laughed, even though I’d heard his lame attempt at a joke hundreds of times. “Whiskey or beer?”
“Maker’s on the rocks, sweetheart,” he answered, without even looking away from the television.
I saw the rest of my life spread out before me if I didn’t make some changes. I saw a man who called me “sweetheart” only when he wanted another drink, and then only if he was in a good mood. I saw bruises that he would tell me were my fault. I saw Bug unable to get it up until he could make me cry out in pain. I saw myself — dropping out of school to take care of Bug’s children and raising a son who would treat women as badly as Bug treated me. It was right at that moment — when Bug had actually said something halfway nice to me — that I knew I had to get out. One way or another, I had to force myself to walk away from Bug and find something better for myself.
I wasn’t sure when, but I knew it had to happen.
On my way back into the kitchen, I picked up the bottle of Maker’s Mark on the dining room table. I scanned the table top — not that anyone would ever be able to eat a meal on it, covered with junk mail and bills, most of which had past due notices in red ink at the top. If the mail was anything to go by, Bug’s money troubles sure weren’t getting any better.
Pretty sure that nothing would separate Bug from the sofa other than a nuclear bomb, or perhaps the urge to pee, I fished the ziplock bag from my purse. I looked at the white powder and tried to decide how much to put in the drink. I wasn’t concerned about his safety; I knew that two sleeping pills wouldn’t kill him, even if I mixed them with whiskey. I was more worried that they would make the whiskey taste different and that he wouldn’t finish the drink. I needed him to drink more than a sip to knock him out.
I grabbed a glass from the counter and put half of the powder in. If I had to, I’d fix him a second drink. I went to the freezer and opened it to find four empty ice cube trays and only two ice cubes in the bucket. I sighed, filled the empty trays, telling myself that I wouldn’t have to clean up after Bug for much longer, and I dropped the cubes in the glass. I topped it off with several ounces of whiskey, stirred it until the pill had completely dissolved, and headed back out to deliver my cocktail.
I put the glass in Bug’s hand without a word and walked back outside to clean off the grill. I didn’t wait around for the thanks I knew I wouldn’t get. Grill scraped clean, I headed back inside to get the steaks, and I was pleased to see that the glass of whiskey was nearly half empty already. If I could get him drunk and sleepy quickly enough, I wouldn’t even have to bother trying to act like I wanted to sleep with him, a bonus for sure.
Salad in bowls, mine with the caesar dressing that had come in the bag, Bug’s with ranch — the only dressing he would eat – I called into the living room. “Bug, dinner will be ready in five minutes. Where do you want to eat?”
I knew what he’d answer, but I figured I’d give him a choice.
“My show’s on, and besides, that table’s a fuckin’ mess,” he called back, like it was my fault he’d stacked all his junk on the table.
“Coming right up, my lord and master,” I muttered under my breath.
“Huh?” he hollered from the living room.
“Ready in a minute,” I said as I went back out to get the steaks off the grill.
I pulled my steak off when it was about medium and left Bug’s on longer, until I was certain he wouldn’t see any pink in the middle. I plated everything and carried Bug’s in to the living room. He hadn’t bothered to even set up the tray tables, so I set down his dinner, set up his table, and put his plate and salad bowl in front of him.