Howling for Divorce

He bursts through the door, grinning like a kid who just got away with eating the last cookie. His cheeks are flushed pink — maybe from the cold, maybe from spending hours in the garage trying to conquer the kingdom of broken carburetors. His hair is a greasy disaster, curls rebelliously flopping onto his forehead, like they too had given up halfway through the day.

He’s loud, obnoxiously so, and it’s endearing… until it isn’t. His green eyes gleam, his teeth flash in that confident, I’m-definitely-winning-at-life way, and I can’t help but wonder if he thinks that black shirt is coming clean again. Spoiler: it’s not.

Already, he’s halfway up the stairs, peeling off his shirt like he’s a rockstar about to hit the shower stage. He’s yelling something — probably about how much he’s accomplished today — but my ears have gone into self-preservation mode. The water starts running. His brother trails in after him, looking equally as disheveled and hungry enough to eat a spare tire.

“Still hungry!” his brother hollers from the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge like a raccoon at a picnic.

“Did you eat dinner?” I ask my husband as he reappears, now with a towel on his head like he’s auditioning for a shampoo commercial.

“Nope,” he says casually, patting his stomach. “Been gaining weight though. Your fault.”

My fault?! The audacity. I mentally list the kale smoothies and quinoa bowls I’ve endured for the sake of his health, and suddenly my sympathy evaporates like the last piece of pizza when his brother’s around.

The room chills — or maybe it’s just my paranoia. My brain’s replaying every single horror movie ever, and I’m glancing at the fireplace poker like it’s about to save me from impending doom. My gut whispers: Run.

But do I? No. Of course not. I decide to shower instead. That’s what rational people do, right? Except he’s now standing in front of me, blocking the stairs, tilting his head in the way dogs do when they’re about to do something stupid.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, too sweetly.

“Nothing,” I lie. I’m terrible at lying. My voice cracks like a teenage boy hitting puberty.

The moonlight sneaks through the window, bathing him in a suspiciously villainous glow. Suddenly, his ears grow pointy, his teeth look like they belong in a steak knife commercial, and fur sprouts from his back. I blink once, twice, wondering if I’ve been tricked into some kind of weird performance art.

“Give me a hug,” he croons, his voice syrupy and terrifying.

Nope, nope, nope. My brain screams, BOLT. But my body freezes.

He lunges, claws slashing at my sweater, and I yelp, fumbling for the nearest weapon — a vase. It’s full of flowers, a Valentine’s Day special. Perfect for this romantic little nightmare. I smash it across his back.

“That was a gift!” he growls, barely fazed.

“Oh, my bad,” I snap, launching a plate at his head. “Let me get you another!”

The kitchen becomes a war zone, dishes flying like frisbees, and I’m in the Olympics for Most Chaotic Defense. He’s ducking and weaving, but I manage to nail him with a coffee mug that says “World’s Best Husband.” The irony is not lost on me.

“Can we talk about this?” he gasps, hunched over after I slam a drawer into his gut.

“Sure,” I pant, holding a frying pan like a medieval shield. “Right after I survive this werewolf-induced marital crisis!”

The moon slips behind a cloud, and he shifts back into his regular, non-hairy self, looking sheepish. “Babe, I — ”

“Nope!” I cut him off, grabbing the car keys. “We’re skipping marriage counseling. I’m calling the vet.”

This time, I don’t look back. Because if the dishes couldn’t save me, nothing could.