The Milk

8:15 PM.

The kitchen smells like garlic and burnt oil.

Unwashed pans stacked in the sink.

On the counter, a half-empty carton of almond milk. The red cap lies three inches away.

They grab the cap, twist it on hard, and shove the carton into the fridge door.

Slam.

On the top shelf above, three wine glasses rattle against each other.

The other person looks up from the kitchen stool.

“What is your problem?”

“Is it physically impossible for you to put a cap back on something?”

“I poured a splash two minutes ago. Why are you screaming?”

“I’m not screaming!”

Their voice cracks on the second word.

The other person throws their phone onto the quartz. A loud smack.

“You’re losing your mind over milk! I work ten hours, walk through the door, and you jump down my throat!”

“It’s not about the milk! It’s never about the fucking milk!”

“Then what is it about?! Just tell me!”

Under the overhead pendant light.

Chest heaving.

Their mouth opens.

Nothing comes out.

The other person spreads their hands.

“See? Nothing. You just want to be mad.”

“Forget it.”

Down the hallway.

The bathroom door locks with a brass snap.

The shower handles turned all the way left until the water roars against the fiberglass stall.

Sitting on the bath mat, back pressed hard to the tub.

Knees to the chest.

Ugly, jagged breaths.

Wiping a wet nose with cheap two-ply that shreds against the skin.

Shoes on without socks. Keys off the dresser.

The front door clicks shut into the cold night.

Tires crunching wet gravel down the street.

Three blocks away, parked in the dark behind a closed CVS.

Dashboard glow. A buzzing sodium floodlight on the brick wall.

Both hands gripping the steering wheel until the knuckles turn white.

Looking up into the rearview mirror.

Blotchy skin. Swollen eyes.

The engine idles for forty minutes.

10:45 PM.

The apartment is dark.

The milk is in the fridge. The pans are rinsed.

The TV in the bedroom throwing blue flickers against the drywall.

They slide under the duvet.

Six inches of sheet between their backs.

Shallow, awake breathing.

Silence.

7:00 AM.

The electric toothbrush buzzing.

Standing side by side at the double vanity.

Eyes fixed on the drain as the foam circles down.

Neither looks up at the glass.

Squeezing past each other in the hallway, pulling shoulders in so clothes don’t brush.

By the door:

“Have a good day at work.”

“You too.”

The latch catches.

And they’re right back where they started.