Congratulations on Running Your Mouth!

The kitchen knife will fly across the room and catch on the tile, flipping up towards you.  If this was a cartoon or a movie, it would stick there and stand straight up, but because this is real life it will tumble through the air, narrowly missing your face.  You’ll stand there stock still for a few moments as the blood screams in your skull and adrenaline diffuses throughout your body before turning around and looking at her.  She’ll be standing there, fuming at you, nostrils flaring.  Eyes locked on your face, hands clenched to fists.

She won’t speak at first.  She’ll just breathe.  You’ll wonder, from the sound, if you’re actually sharing the room with a bull, but no, you won’t be: it’ll just be your wife standing there, raging silently at you for five minutes.  When she does finally speak to you, it will be in a solid, unwavering tone, so soft that you can barely hear her.

“You know better,” you’ll barely hear.

You’ll nod at her silently, which will permit her to turn around and stalk out of the room.  You’ll decide, at that moment, to spend the night on the couch.  Picking up the knife, cleaning it, finishing the vegetables your wife was chopping, returning it to the block, you’ll perform the mental calculations necessary to convince yourself that yes, your wife did just react rationally, yes, her lactose intolerance is a serious issue, and yes, even mentioning an ice cream sandwich in passing constitutes such a violation, such a breach of trust that she is quite justified in hurling blades at your face.

When you finish cooking up your hot dish you’ll climb the stairs to the room the two of you share, where you’ll hear your wife sobbing.  In your mind’s eye you’ll see her clutching her anger pillow, biting into it, growling as she does so.  You’ll tap on the door and, looking away from it, announce to her.

“Dinner.”

Congratulations on Running Your Mouth!