I had told the Uber driver, in my most harmless small-talk voice, that my husband was just inside saying goodnight to my mother. I wanted him to think someone would be home, that our place wasn’t empty. It felt like a harmless white lie, the kind you forget almost as soon as you say it. Until my husband got in the car, flushed and breathless, completely unaware of the setup I’d just created.
He launched into his rant about “the stupid bitch hiding under the bed,” how he’d poked “her” with a coat hanger, grabbed “her” by the neck, wrapped “her” in a blanket, then “hauled her fat ass down the stairs and threw her into the backyard.” Each sentence landed like a crime-scene confession. I watched the driver’s horrified eyes in the rearview mirror, felt the air freeze around us, and realized there was no graceful way to say, “He’s talking about the cat.”
