I hated it!

Never in my life had I churned up such a pure, unrefined loathing for another human being. I’d always assumed hate was a thing that happened slowly, a dirty crust that built up around the soul over time, but this was instantaneous, chemical, a reaction set off by the sight of Wiley’s greasy moving back and forth into the woman I loved. The morning light through the window should have illuminated Sarah, cast her in the soft glow that always made my heart jump, but today it only spotlighted the intruder: a disgusting, slouched, rotting mass of sweat, unwashed t-shirt, and stubble. And yes, I hated him for being there, hated his lumpy arms spread over the clean pine surface of my bed, hated that the love of my life was lying beside him in a wrinkled robe, her hair askew, still beautiful, still very much Sarah, but marked now with the strong, pungent, revolting aura of Wiley, a stench my brain translated out of spite. But more than that, maybe more than anything, I hated myself for being the reason this happened. If it wasn’t for me not controlling my anger, Sarah would never have fucked him. This was the closest I’d ever come to pure hate: hating him, hating her, and hating myself, all at once and in equal measure.

I could look at the mess on the bed any longer, so I turned and pressed my back to the hallway drywall, my ears and face burning. On the other side, I could hear them start to stir as they slowly awake from their long sleep. They didn’t say a word but from the sounds they were getting ready, so I hid myself in the bathroom, fearful of facing them with the rage inside of me. I hid there for ten minutes as I work on calmly myself down.

Eventually I took a deep breath, straightened my shirt, and walked out, I was still angry, but I was at least in control of myself enough to not blow up. They both were sitting at the kitchen table silently slipping on stale coffee. Wiley looked even more pathetic in the daylight. He’d spilled coffee on his shirt, and was trying to mop it up with a brown, napkin. I sat down hard between them trying to be a shield to protect Wiley’s grossness from staining Sarah body any more than it already has.

No one spoke for a minute. Wiley’s nose whistled when he breathed, a sound I heard many times before, and every time made me want to punch his nose in.

He cleared his throat. “Ah, Liam, about last night—”

“Yeah, what about it?” I snapped, cutting him off. “You fucked my girlfriend. Is that the bit you want to discuss?”

Wiley ducked his head and as he lost all nerve as Sarah’s face flushed red, and gasp “Enough,” her voice trembling but resolute. She squinted at me with those deadly earnest eyes I’d fallen for, and now they were pointed at me like little knives. “Enough, you two. It happened, okay? I’m not proud, but it happened. And as long as you all learn how to act like adult” she looks straight at me as if implying something” it’s not happening again.”

Wiley let out an almost auditable grunt but Sarah must have missed it.

I could see the shame in her posture. “As far as I’m concerned,” she said, smoothing her robe and looking first at me, then at Wiley, “we’re not going to talk about what happened last night ever again. I don’t want it hanging over us. We’re drawing a line and moving forward.”

Wiley nodded, his jowls quivering. “Okay, Sara-bear,”

Sarah turned to him with pleading eyes “I know it’s not your fault what happened last night, but could you… maybe just not call me that for a while? Like not forever, but just a little while, okay?

I could see life leave Wiley’s eyes as if someone took away his favorite toy as he answers “Ok.”

No one had an appetite for breakfast. The three of us sat in total silence for what felt like an hour. I tried to play it cool, scrolling on my phone, but every few seconds I’d look up and see Sarah sneaking glances at me, her expression twisted with guilt, frustration and anger. Wiley just stared into his coffee, probably wishing he could dissolve in it and disappear.

After an eternity, Wiley got up. He shuffled to the sink, washed out his mug, and placed it in the drying rack with the slow, deliberate care of someone on **** row savoring every step to the gallows. He avoided my eyes as he walked to the door. “Thanks for letting me crash here, Sarah. Sorry about… everything.” He paused, then: “Bye, Liam.”

I didn’t respond. He left, the door clicking shut with finality. I exhaled for the first time in minutes.

Sarah and I didn’t talk much that day. She hung around the living room, texting occasionally, cleaned up our bedroom, offering to make lunch, then dinner. I barely answered, barely tasted the food. That night, she curled up in bed beside me, but neither of us touched the other. Her breathing was shallow and fast, and I could feel the tension in her muscles radiating through the mattress. I tried to sleep, but all I could do was replay the scene at the table, the unbridgeable space between us.

Monday started like this: I was forty-seven minutes late to work, and my manager had posted my name on a whiteboard in block letters under the heading “Negative Examples.” When I asked why, he licked his thumb, wiped it along the board, and told me that if I wanted to be remembered for something, I should be careful what it was. Then he “assigned” me a new supervisor, which is to say he promoted the guy I’d just finished training myself. A punk nineteen year old Kid who disrespected me at every turn when I was training him. I almost fired four times. The whole company knew I wanted this kid gone; the only reason he wasn’t fire was he was my supervisor’s friend’s kid. My dad had promised me that the next screw up he made would be his last. And now my dad is retired/ bought out and this kid is in charge of me. Every time he gave me an order, he did it with a smile full of orthodontic hardware, like he was the sun and I was the patch of sidewalk his mother had just begged him not to piss on.

When I asked if this was permanent, my manager laughed and said, “Should’ve treated him better while you had the chance, don’t you think, Liam?” and then made a show of angling his jacket closed before walking off to the breakroom. I spent the rest of the morning running paperwork between departments, then spent the afternoon on punishment duty in the mailroom, culling out the spam and credit card offers everyone was too important to open themselves. The new supervisor made sure to walk past at least once an hour, ostentatiously timing me on his phone and making remarks about “poor productivity levels.”

After eight hours of that, I was so angry I couldn’t even fantasize about quitting, only about the things I would have done to the manager’s car if I ever had privacy and a hammer.