Harsh words explode followed by sharp crashes. This is our typical Friday night dance. But tonight feels different: ominous, deadly.
He advances, serrated knife in hand. I back away, silver serving tray between trembling fingers.
“I’ve got the advantage,” he trumpets. “It’s over, Christine.”
I sidestep his swipes, making swift counter blocks. To my right is the salt shaker. I uncap and fling it at him.
Shrieks fill the air. Seconds later, he evaporates.
Shaking my hair out of my eyes, I see a card. Swiftly, I dial.
“I need my house cleansed again. My husband still refuses to vacate.”