Marriage therapy

He’s the best in town.

“Everyone says this guy is the best,” Bram said, his hands covered in thick juice from the slabs of meat he was busy tenderizing. “Janet and Phil just got finished with him. He turned their lives around.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “Janet and Phil give names to crystals and eat according to their blood type,” I said.

“Sure,” Bram said, “but they’re not the only ones I’ve heard this from. I really think we should try this guy.” He pounded the hammer down onto the rib-eye, causing another ring of meat spatter to go flying.

I stood there for a moment, my feet fixed on the kitchen tile, watching him bring the tenderizer to the meat. Yes, our marriage was falling apart; there was no doubt about it. I was hoping to fix it by talking. We were drifting apart: he wanted the stability of a corporate job and a paint-by-numbers life, and I found myself thirsting for more adventure. A life built from first principles, just for us, instead of a template handed down to us through peer pressure, forcing us to sand off our edges and fit into a pigeonhole built for everybody else. It was stifling, and he didn’t get it. I felt lonelier by the day.

“Lyd,” he said, pausing his hammering. “Please. Let’s just try it. Take it for a test drive. If it doesn’t work, we’ll move onto something else.”