It was another blow out fight, the third one this week. You always take things too personally. You’re too sensitive. Why don’t you lighten up.

Samantha stormed out of the house and hopped in her car, driving in the pouring rain towards the one man she knows understands her. Her mind is half on the flooded streets, half on Ivan, who she’d come to rely on in times of crisis. Was he home? Would she be disturbing him? Probably not. He’d always welcomed her whenever she just popped in on him unannounced, made her feel welcome, and most importantly, desirable. Every week with this shit! Every time I open my mouth you take things the wrong way. What’s the matter with you? Why is everything always such a fucking drama?

She noses her Buick onto the expressway and merges into the late rush hour traffic, heading towards the one place she can find a moment of peace. Thankfully the traffic is light, much lighter than would be expected at this hour, and especially when the weather is as bad as this. The windshield wipers thump and squeak rhythmically on the windshield, visibility not that great, but she’s determined to get as far away from her problems as possible. She’s not feeling all that well, her stomach cramping and turning over on itself. I don’t know why I put up with this shit! What good is all that therapy doing you? You’re a worse mess now than you were when you started going. What the fuck are you paying him for?

God, she could throttle him. How insensitive and callous! Then again, Hank had always been this way, for as long as she’d known him, for as long as she dated him. He wants the perfect woman, a woman who tends to his needs, his desires, without drama, without problems. Well, she has problems. Where’s the empathy? Are her problems too inconvenient for him? Do they disrupt his illusions of the perfect relationship? Ivan will understand. He always does. He always knows how to listen and say the right things. Is he home?

I knew once you started going to therapy there were going to be problems. That’s what they do, find problems that aren’t there and then insist you keep coming. It’s a money grab, that’s all it is! What good is going to therapy if you’re only going to get worse? Scumbag, that’s what he is. A selfish, inconsiderate scumbag. Why she’s even still with him, she doesn’t know. Meanwhile someone out there accepts her, warts and all, is empathetic to her problems, understands them, understands her. Her stomach is turning somersaults now, cramping and twisting into knots, and she feels the urge to vomit. What is she doing? Why bother this poor guy with her problems? Hasn’t he enough problems of his own? She takes the next exit and turns around, heads back towards home.

The rain has intensified, making it hard to see, the windshield wipers in long need of replacement. What will she expect when she gets home? More of the same, probably watching Hank stomp around the apartment, barking at her, insisting he’s the victim. Fuck him! You always find a way to blame me for everything. What about you? Have you ever looked at yourself? You think I’m the selfish and inconsiderate one? Look in the fucking mirror! I’ve had it with all this fucking drama! You and your whole family! For Christ’s sake, get a fucking grip!

She turns the car around, gets back on the expressway. No, she can’t go home. She’d be an idiot to go back now. She needs time to cool off. Hank needs time to cool off. An hour at Ivan’s apartment is what she needs. He’ll listen. He’ll know what to say. He always does. She feels even more nauseous now, on the verge of vomiting. She takes the next exit and pulls over at the side of the service road, opens the door, and vomits into the street, remnants of her salad flowing in the miniature river created by the torrential rains. When she collects herself, she wipes her mouth with a tissue, then continues on, getting back on the expressway. How different would her life be if she just broke it off with him once and for all, started again, perhaps with Ivan, who always treated her like a human being, treated her with love, kindness, and respect. It’s something unknown and the unknown frightens her. It’s better to go with the devil you know.

What happened to you? You used to be fun. Now you’re always on about something, always depressed over some shit that doesn’t even concern you. You’re too sensitive! That’s your problem. You carry the world’s problems on your shoulders. What is that therapist telling you? What kind of shit is he putting into that thick fucking head of yours? If I didn’t know any better, he’s probably looking to fuck you. You’ll see. Sooner or later he’s going to make a move on you. He’s softening you up, getting ready for the kill. Do you tell him about our problems? I’m sure you do, and he smells blood in the water. Mark my words, you’ll see. What a fucking idiot! How dare he imply such a thing? She’s more determined to get away now, her foot stepping on the gas pedal, speeding along the expressway at over sixty miles per hour, keeping her eye on the road, watching out for the inept drivers who can never navigate the roads on a normal day, never mind the stormy ones. When she gets there, she’ll throw herself into Ivan’s arms, seek the comfort she needs. Again, she feels nauseous. What is she doing? What is Ivan supposed to do? Why is she even headed there?

Again, she takes the next exit and turns around, heads towards home, but before getting back on the expressway, she pulls over again, opens the door, and dry heaves. It takes her a few moments to collect herself, then continues on home. It would be a mistake. She needs to go home, to her warm bed, to sleep. If she’s lucky, Hank went to the bar to be with his friends, complaining about her while throwing back his usual shots of whiskey. But what if he’s not? What if he’s sitting on the couch, watching the ball game, ready to pounce on her once she walks through the door? No, she’s not ready for that. Not now.

She takes the next exit and turns around again, heading towards Ivan’s house. She’s nauseous again but at least she doesn’t feel the urge to vomit. Tears flow. Her hands tremble on the steering wheel. Just an hour, that’s all she needs. A moment of sanity, compassion, and understanding. She steps on the gas, now moving at near seventy miles per hour. In another twenty minutes she’ll be there. God, she hopes he’s there.

New York City, May 2022