Guy and Cheryl were in the kitchen. Nine years they'd been together.

Guy said, "I better get my oil changed today."

Cheryl said, "Mly mletter buh-buh woil mlanged mubbay."

Guy said, "What the fuck, Cheryl? Mocking me?"

"You need to get your piss changed," Cheryl said. "Change your piss. Every drop, drink it down."

Guy was stunned. "What's gotten into you?" he said.

"Don't worry about it, my main man." She slapped his shoulder. Hard. "Just change the oil. Change it all. Find a big lady, she'll do it for you. Like a brick fucking house."

"I don't—"

"Make sure she's stacked, Guy McGuy. Stacked as shit."

She was in his face. She grabbed a handful of banana chips from his bowl and marched munching out of the room.

Guy listened as her footsteps pounded away and up the stairs.

He googled menopause. Was that it?

No. Cheryl was forty.

It wasn't PMS. Cheryl didn't believe in PMS.

He ate banana chips and texted his dad. He asked if his mom had ever mocked him and jumped down his throat.

"Every goddamn day," his dad texted back. He added: ":-/"

Guy went to Valvoline. When he got back, Cheryl was stomping to her car.

"Was the bitch stacked?" she called to him.

"What do you mean?" he said, keys in his upturned hand.

"You know what I mean. Stack it up! Fuck it, man!"

She yelled like she meant for someone to overhear. But who? They were the only ones out there.

Guy watched Cheryl get in her car and drive away.

Was this it? The beginning of the end? Was Guy losing Cheryl for good?

He went to church. He sat in the front pew—no service on Saturday—and prayed for Cheryl. He prayed for peace in her heart and in his home.

On his way out, Pastor Gene stopped him to say hi and talk about God and stuff.

Guy told him the events of that morning.

"Is she getting politics?" Gene asked. "They getting into her?"

"No more than usual," Guy said.

"Whatever you do," said Pastor Gene, "do not let her run for school board. It'll be a beginning of the end."

"Do you mean the beginning?"

"No."

Guy took an overdue trip to Ikea. He'd been wanting a shelving unit, to hold some of the things he and Cheryl had bought over the years.

He stepped into the lamp area, crossing over from the dishwasher zone.

From behind an appliance Cheryl leapt and splashed a jar of blue paint in his face.

He knew it was her. He caught a glimpse of her grin as the paint hit his eyes and turned him blue. She threw the jar down, shattering glass, and cried, "Big misunderstanding in aisle nine! This man is blue!"

She ran from the building. People rushed to help Guy. He wiped paint from his eyes. Someone brought him a towel from Ikea's towel region.

When he returned home, later, after stopping for four beers at a bar he'd never been to, he approached the front door with caution. He stopped several times as he walked up, listening for Cheryl, hearing only leaves on trees that shook in the wind.

He reached the door. He put his key in the lock.

He heard, "Lights out, motherfucker," and his legs went out from under him.

She had run up from somewhere. She grabbed him by the legs and lifted and dropped him, knocked the wind from his chest.

Guy brought his hands up to his face. He thought she'd kick him.

Instead she laughed, which was probably worse.

A neighbor came over. Hans.

"What's going on, here?" Hans asked. "Cheryl, is this guy bothering you?"

"Yes," Cheryl said. "He is."

"Is that you, Guy?" asked Hans. "You get beat up by a girl?"

"I think I broke him," said Cheryl.

"She did not," said Guy, gasping.

"Yeah, right," said Cheryl. "How's your blue face, Mister Shit?"

"Brutal," Hans said, shaking his head. "This is just brutal."

"He's lucky I'm not livestreaming this," said Cheryl. "Shit. I should have livestreamed it."

"Stop!" Guy cried, still gasping. "Stop! Please. What is this about, Cheryl? What's gotten into you?"

"What's it about?" she sang, raising her arms high. "I'll tell you what it's about, Guy. It's about me and you. It's about a contract we signed, and a vow we made with all our parents watching. And my sisters."

"I didn't cheat on you!"

"I didn't say you did!"

"It's good you got that out of the way," said Hans, nodding.

Hans was a marriage counselor. Cheryl ignored him.

She said, "This isn't about infidelity, Guy. No, no, no. It's about reality. And reality is taking you down."

"But what does that mean?" Guy wheezed.

"It means when you marry someone, you gain a best friend for life. A companion. A confidante."

"That's beautiful," Hans said.

"But you get an adversary, too," Cheryl went on, like a fucking freight train. "I am your lover, Guy. I'm your destroyer. I am the source of all your ecstasy, and I can crush your head when you're sleeping. Just like that."

"Makes you think," Hans said.

Cheryl said, "Marriage, my husband, is the most dangerous game. That was round one. Nine years!" She shook her head. "You've got to get faster and smarter. Because I get better constantly."

Hans said, "Love takes so many forms. Thank you for this."

Cheryl looked up. "I'm ordering a pizza," she said. "And I don't like that crescent moon."

She went inside. She shouted something else, in there, Guy couldn't hear what.

"Is all of that true?" asked Hans.

"It's all true," Guy said. "She doesn't like the moon."

Hans sighed. "I can't help you," he said.

He went inside.

Guy had to go inside, too.

He dusted himself off and went to the door. He turned the knob slowly, with his blue hand, and braced himself for round two.

.

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