Middle Rage

Part 10 -- Oma

"Cold?" he whines. I am cold. It's the nerves. I shouldn't be here. I've got to get out of here. My smile warbles at the edges.

"Didn't know when you'd eat. But it's thawed, so it should only take forty five minutes. Just pop it in the oven. Instructions are on the back." I look over my shoulder, wondering if anyone in our nosy neighborhood is witnessing this exchange. Just shy of five is early enough so that the fathers won't be coming home yet, but kids are loose, and their caretakers frantically driving them from one excursion to the next. Myself included; I've just dropped my son off in front of the high school minutes ago, patiently pulling forward in a line of a dozen parents doing the same.

"Jenn back?" Except I know she isn't. The hallway behind him is darkened, lit only by the monster TV's flickering glow against the back wall.

Dan checks his arm where a watch would be, slips his phone out of the bathrobe pocket. I wonder what he's wearing underneath and hope it's at least something. My mind fills in the hairy, bowed legs that came down the stairs that day we all checked in on Jenn, the rounded belly under a tightly stretched shirt. And like that, I can see him naked as a gargoyle, a hideous art piece draped behind a velour curtain. When I meet his eyes, it seems Dan has caught onto the part about me thinking of his naked body, if not my absolute revulsion. The air between us shimmers and it's all I can do not to bolt, screaming.

"Nah, insurance pays until the shift change at eight. I figured, better to let the nurses do their thing. At least Jenn'll get a hot meal out of it. Wanna come in?" He gestures with the lasagna box in invitation. Can't help himself with that petulant dig about cold dinner. At least he doesn't pretend not to know how to turn on the stove.

My lips part; the need for oxygen too great for mere nose breathing. Jenn will have knives in her showroom kitchen, perfectly sharpened. My ears detect no passing traffic behind us. I could say I dropped off dinner and no one would be able to prove otherwise. Jenn will have the perfect alibi. My cheeks prickle with heat, and I can tell by the change in Dan's face, the way he leans forward, transfixed, that he thinks I'm turned on.

I am turned on. By the thought of slashing his throat, of spilling his blood over Jenn's laminate wood floor. Of it seeping between the cracks to the cement foundation, so that even when Jenn sells the house and the next owners refurbish the place, there will still be microscopic evidence that on this day, I did the world a favor.

He moves even closer, his own exhales uneven, the heavy lasagna box listing in his hands. The energy between us electrifies, changing everything. Too close to pretend we are just friendly neighbors talking. My kill kit, a scattered idea, the pieces still in a recyclable grocery bag left in the hallway of my house. The heated, animal smell of him. The way he demands eye contact, tilting his head to follow as I try to look away.

At best, my choice is awkward flight, delivered with a frightened smile he'll read as pity. If I bail, both of us knowing I turned him down, here are the consequences: The next time we meet in a social situation, he'll make a point to catch me in an empty hallway, and this time when he makes a pass, it'll be angry – blocking the hallway so I can't get by, or a muttered comment at how I came on to him, followed by a crass remark loud enough for others to hear, delivered with a Halloween mask of a grin,  his rage at the earlier rejection.

My uncle did this too; at a family gathering the Christmas I turned nineteen, in my parents' kitchen bustling with too many relatives trying to help make dinner. Getting out my mother's blender and noticing the lack of counter space, I asked, "Where can I plug this in?"

"Bend over!" My uncle roared, laughing into his drink. In front of my nieces and little cousins. In front of my boyfriend. No one said anything.

"I'll kill you," I said, because I couldn't think of anything else.