44 Chapters About 4 Men

by B.B. Easton

Because my nerves were fucking shot by the time I met Ken, my heart was riding in on fumes, and the stability and security and sanity he offered was a soothing balm to my spent scorched soul.

I’m a psychologist, not a mind reader. If Ken doesn’t tell me I’m pretty or that I’m a good mom or that I cook a mean bowl of cereal, how can I assume that he’s thinking it? I can’t. Ergo, I walk around every day under the assumption that my husband thinks I’m a homely asshole.

I want a proper pet name—something personalized.

Run! Hide! You’re gonna die, you stupid bitch! None of these anemic emo kids can save you! Abort! Abort!

So, this is what a family is, I thought. Just a houseful of people who’ve all sucked on your tits. And have also been inside your vagina.

“You’re like this pretty little Tinker Bell with your pixie hair and big green eyes, but then you’re smart as shit and full of fire and sass and all I want to do is put you in my pocket and never fucking share you with anyone.”

Looking into that dreamy face was like mainlining Xanax. The familiar fog of calm and contentment I usually felt whenever I was around Hans clouded the car until I couldn’t even remember what I’d been so worried about.

If Ken would just have a fucking feeling once in a while, make a little eye contact, cup my face in his hands, press his forehead to mine, say something sweet—I’m not even looking for complete sentences. He can fucking tap You are beautiful into my ass in Morse code if it’s really that excruciating for him to express himself out loud—that entire entry would have been about him. Actually, that entry wouldn’t even exist. There would be no need. We’d be John and fucking Yoko.