She frequently displayed this sort of wild paranoia, though it is true that, earlier in the day, he had flirted with one of the moms at a birthday party he had attended with his two daughters and son. His refrigerator was always full of malt liquor, 40-ounce bottles stacked neatly on the bottom shelf like an arsenal of small torpedoes.There was a lone bottle chilling in the freezer he had been about to remove it when his wife tore into the kitchen, grabbed a knife from the drawer and accused him of being unfaithful. He, for his part, had had a great deal to drink, but he wasn’t drunk, alcohol for him having become, over the better part of his 38 years, more of a stabilizer than an intoxicant. She was, needless to say, high at the time. My brother moved to console her, insisting that everything would be OK, displaying the kind of humanity perhaps common only in people who believe they can wed heroin addicts and have things turn out well. It dangled from a strip of flesh while his wife, still holding the butcher knife, flailed around in a spasm of remorse. Two troubled souls who-despite their love-simply would not, and maybe could not, be soothedįor a decade, my brother struggled to save his marriage, but late one winter night, he accepted that it was over, right after his wife almost cut off his thumb. Jerald Walker: On Guarding Against An Over-Active Imagination.
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