“Get me my drink,” keyboard cat says to you.
You stare at keyboard cat, his 5-o’clock shadow, and his red drunken eyes, wondering whether you had ever loved him.
“Whatareya staring at? Get me my drink,” keyboard cat says.
“No,” you say, with a quiver in your voice.
“Whatdidya just say? Didya say no to me?”
Keyboard cat just stares at you until he throws his whiskey glass, which slams and explodes against the wall against your left ear. You cringe.
“I FUCKING,” keyboard cat begins, “WORK 10 FUCKING HOURS A DAY TO PUT FOOD ON THE KIDS—FOOD ON THE TABLE,” he shouts.
You pull your kids closer. You tell yourself you’re just trying to protect them, but deep down you hope he’ll take out some of his anger on them before he hits you.
He undoes his belt and pulls out his ring of keys. You shiver, close your eyes, and wait for the catchy piano music that never comes.