When he threw the glass against the wall, I didn’t react. I puttered about making dinner while he watched YouTube videos in the next room and filled the apartment with clouds of smoke. He didn’t offer to help, didn’t even glance up as I trailed back and forth with pots and plates, glasses of orange juice I’d hand-squeezed that morning. I would never tolerate this dynamic in New York, but here, somehow, it is harder to speak to. He is punishing me for something, and I am letting him. He is weaponizing all his losses against me, and I am wanting the abuse, or, at the very least, accepting it as
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