Relax. It will all be over soon.

Zzzrrrt. Zzzrrrt. Zzzrrt.

Relax? How the hell is he supposed to relax when Becca is

strutting around with that damn screw gun, removing

anything that isn’t nailed down?

She could have at least waited until we signed the divorce

papers.

Zzzrrrt. Zzzrrt. Zzzrrt.

The sound of the screw gun filters through the concrete

corridors, along sleek wooden floors, drifting toward the

living room.

Patrick has always considered himself unremarkable. Now

forty-three and sporting streaks of gray in his otherwise

black hair, he's never had reason to believe himself

handsome. His favorite features—a chiseled jaw line, blue

eyes, and an abundance of thick hair have been toned down

by age.

He hauls himself upright on his bright red massage recliner.

On vibrate mode, the chair gives off a loud mosquito-like

buzzing noise that is overwhelmed by the sound of the screw

gun.

He’s uneasy and tense, pretty much the opposite of what he

wants. His body aches; he’s drunk and hungover. His eyes

are barely open, and his feet are like concrete blocks.

Things are not going how I expected. Not at all.

It is midday when he wanders down into the living room.

Becca has been there for the past hour. At least, he assumes

it has been an hour. For some reason, his watch stopped at

exactly noon.

Becca is taking everything with her out to the exterior

courtyard, all of her loot tucked under a slender, tanned arm.

She moves toward her Land Rover jeep, stowing her bounty

away before returning with glittering eyes to descend like a

goddamn magpie on all of his shiny things.

At any rate, he doesn’t need to have open eyes to see Becca

with the yellow DeWalt screw gun lowered by her side,

scrunching her pretty face into a thoughtful squint as she

considers what the next item is on her to-grab list. He can

picture it quickly enough. Her hands are on her hip, her right

leg jutting forward at an angle as if she’s posing in some

catalogue. Her lower lip curls while her eyes slant, focusing

on whatever pricey piece of crap she may want.

I’m still in love with her. It’s nauseating.

“Becca?” Patrick growls, wanting to leap off the recliner but

struggling to no avail. It’s gotten quiet. Quiet means Becca

is up to no good.

All he can hear now is his breathing, strained and ragged. Is

he finding it difficult to breathe because she’s fleecing him

of all his worldly possessions? His watery eyes flutter open.

I swear I’ll never drink again.

The buzzing of the chair sounds faint and distant as he pulls

and twists, finally freeing himself from the recliner. His heart

palpitates as he drifts toward a particular direction, moving

without a set intention.

She broke his heart several times during their relationship,

but something in the universe shifted this time. It feels

historically final. No more Band-Aids on his mangled heart.

She had surgically removed it, leaving a black hole in the

center of his chest.

Where is she? The upstairs bathroom?

He blinks once and finds himself standing in the upstairs

corridor, looking into his bathroom. Patrick gazes into the

mirror, seeing his toned body and blood-shot eyes staring

back at him. Becca uses the screw gun to remove his new

heated toilet seat. She’s wearing earbuds and hums to

herself.

“I’m gonna freeze my ass off, Becca!” The thought crosses

his mind that saying this categorizes him as a total pussy.

After all, he lives in Southern California. "I know you can hear

me!”

Patrick frowns, watching her pull the screw gun away and

carry the toilet seat like a briefcase. When Becca’s wavy

brown locks are tied back in a tight ponytail, she means

business.