The kitchen scene transports me to the one in the horror movie The Sixth Sense where the mom leaves the kitchen for five seconds and returns to find almost all the cupboards and drawers open while the young boy sits hands out, frozen in terror at the table.
Only it’s me in my kitchen, it’s 2:16 a.m., and I’ve just turned on the light to fetch a glass of water.
Five.
Five cupboard doors are wide opened.
Only I’m not terrified, I’m pissed. Ron did this. He always does this. He’s always done this. He opens doors and doesn’t close them. I don’t know why. (Just like I don’t know why I change outfits three times every morning and leave the clothes piled on the bench. His open doors are my clothes piles.)
At that point in my marriage, 18 years in, I would have been happier if it were poltergeists. I would have rather dealt with outside demons than any in my own marriage which wasn’t going very well at the time. I’m pissed because open doors are the one-more-thing, the one-too-many thing in a string of things he does that irritate me which makes it the biggest, most significant thing.