It was my birthday. He took me out for dinner. I remember it well; I was full of laughter and he took me to one of my favorite places to get snow crab legs. It was Fifer's. I remember I was so so proud of him because he didn't get a beer.

Then he got one. (But just one.) We stopped at a hardware store on the way back home. I looked in the backseat. It was a case of Loose Cannon.

I looked up at him from over the shiny top of the new car with pleading eyes. "Why?" is all I could get out.
"Oh for the love of... it's only a few drinks. Fine. If you really don't want me to, I won't have any. Whatever. I mean, what the hell... I only ask for this one thing and is it really that much of a problem?"
"That's a case..." I hissed. It wouldn't be a few, either. It would be many. I was going to be ignored again. And on my birthday. It was the third year in a row he'd ruined my birthday because of booze and I was pissed. I put on a thoughtful face, and interrupted his justifications and explanations with a surprisingly pleasant face. "Actually... you can have some you-time," I said sweetly, "Irime said she had some presents for me. I think I will give her a visit and hang out for a while." I did this many times this month. In fact, at the beginning of the month I was dodging Patti and him and sleeping in the shed. The shed was stuffy, dusty, and itchy, but had electrical outlets and it was in range of the internet in the house, so when I wasn't sleeping in my car, I was sleeping in the woodshed, if I slept at all. Two weeks later it was my birthday, and he had convinced me to try staying with him again, he would stop, he promised. And he didn't drink a drop for a week. We even nearly slept together like lovers, but we were tired. He actually hugged me, though, and petted my legs.

Then the case sat in that backseat and here he was, telling me to get over myself, that he just asks for this one thing... no. I needed to get out.
♪ ♫Sometimes I need some time...on my own
Sometimes I need some time...all alone
Everybody needs some time... on their own
Don't you know you need some time...all alone ♪ ♫

I told him I was leaving, but he was drunk. He wouldn't remember until morning. He would wonder where I was. And he did.

He texted me and called me. About half the times he called me, he was drunk. Some of the times he called I did not answer, because I was looking for a long stretch of road that I could get to 110mph and end everything as succinctly as possible and cause the least property damage. You would be surprised how hard that is to find. I didn't tell him. I didn't tell the therapist.

We tried to patch things up over Christmas. We didn't tell his family we were not living together. Chris didn't tell anyone why he didn't drink the whole time he was there. I was impressed. We stayed at a fancy hotel for holiday things and his family played materialistic holiday games. It was uncomfortable. I fell asleep several times during festivities because I hadn't been sleeping much at all. I didn't realize it at the time, but the blame was literally killing me. I could not spend the night with him at the house. The talking with him in Delaware was enough hurt.

I leaked my belongings over to my safe house. I simply have too many friends that love me to get away with sleeping in my car for more than three weeks. (I had it worked out rather cleverly, though: I had my clothes and toiletries and meds in my runaway bag and did laundry when no one was in the house, snuck in the back. Took showers at the gym, sometimes at the house when no one was looking.) I thought I was clever. I didn't even need to tell his dad about his drinking problem.

But he found out...

♪ ♫ 'Cause nothin' lasts forever, even cold November rain... ♪ ♫

On Superbowl weekend we tried to patch things up again. We had worked hard to move things into the basement to see if we could try living together again. Chris was supposed to be taking care of his ailing grandfather. I was helping because I have patience with him (and most elderly people, really), but I had work on Sunday... the day of the game. I came back to a sickeningly familiar sight. A case of beer drained, two 40s of miller, and, when he had bested those, a half-empty bottle of some clear acrid thing with a deer on the front... all of those emptied into Chris over a 4-hour shift.

I remember every word of our conversation, mostly because I did not speak. I broke. He had enough chances. I have been literally set on fire. I have been sliced. I have dug glass out of my hands and feet. I have recorded him so he would believe he was name-calling me and telling me "fuck you" and "go to hell, bitch". Enough with his being so sweet and perfect when he's sober. I can't do this any more.

"Git fug o'er here." His eyes were heavy-lidded and slow and dead of intellect.
I didn't answer. He was hardly saying a full thought. I packed up my computer and overnight bag; I hadn't brought much with me.
He rolled his eyes, "I mean, how was your day, then?"
I could only nod. I went upstairs to check on Pop and to ask how long the family was staying. They smiled and said they all had to go to work tomorrow, so Chris was taking over from here. Something clicked in me. No more fixing his mistakes. No more pretending everything is fine. No more cleaning up after him. Enough.
"Oh, I see. Well, I have a night shift coming up," I lied. "So Pop has his mobile if he needs to call him, right? That bell is hard to hear from down there."
They cheerfully acknowledged and went back to the game, conversing with Pop. I gave Pop a kiss on the head. I think he knew as well as I did it might be the last time, even in his dementia.

I went back downstairs to check to make sure I had everything before leaving. Aunt Diana's dog, Charlie, followed me. He whined and wagged his thick, yellow tail. I patted his head.
"Fuckin' dog listens better to me than my wife," Chris mumbled. I looked at him in a silent, mostly absent stare.
"C'mere, Charlie. Git up here, pubby!" he called. Charlie looked at me, turned his thick lab body around in the stairwell, and went up the stairs.

Good dog.

I silently picked up my socks while he cursed. He must have figured out I was going. He also insinuated I had told the family he was drinking. He grabbed my arm to stop me when I wouldn't answer him, and I suppose that I instigated that by not speaking to him. After a brief moment of disbelief, I snatched my arm away, and left without a word, hefting my bags onto my shoulders.

I caught a glimpse of Pop as I left the house, and, in that moment, I saw me sitting in that chair, instead. Dying. Suffering from all the things I have going wrong. Totally left to the wind if it was Chris's alone-time.

No. This is my life he's messing with, and I will be damned if I am going to let me die on a breathing machine because it's 'his Saturday'. Hell no.

And so I changed my address. Chris was the last reason I had to stay, and I can't let my life be in the balance because of his illness. He doesn't even admit he has one. This is my problem. The divorce is my fault. I am giving up on the marriage.

So be it.