Excerpt

Home in Florida, my husband and I sit at an outdoor café and become personal. We’re not supposed to do that. We’ve been separated for the last six months. Our counselor has suggested light conversations in pleasant surroundings, just to see if we can do it. We can’t.
Will’s voice prods me, “You said if I let go I could have you. I see that’s not true.”
“Have me? You’ll never get it.” Asshole.
“Haven’t I stayed away and stopped calling?”
I remember myself locked in the bathroom with him, my arms pinned to the wall. “It’s more than your harassment, it’s about control. Putting me back in your cage.”
He blurts “Fuck you, I’ll walk home!” so loud that his bloated face deflates as he jumps back from the table and hobbles away on his injured knee. The other diners look without looking, faces melting with disdain.
I stand, watch him recede, his back rigid, refusing to turn. Then I throw down some bills and drive home dreading a glimpse of him, scared I’ll have to pick him up, scared I won’t. He leaves a message on my machine, “I give up. Divorce me, bitch.”