I never have anyone over for dinner.

Back in the day, back when I had a life, I’d have thought someone who never invited someone over was eccentric. Or had something to hide. Ridiculous.

I like being alone.

I didn’t at first. After J.T. threw me out on my ass, I was pretty damn lonely. It wasn’t like the neighbors would have much to do with me any more, not after they saw all my shit out at the curb the day I came home and he’d locked me out. The bastard.

No more neighborhood barbecues for me. Screw em.

It wasn’t so much the house. Maybe it was. I’d been the one who picked it out, a Georgian in a great subdivision, close to the tennis courts. The sun room was mine, a little cozy glassed in place where I could watch the snow float down, a cup of hot cocoa on my dark wood desk while I wrote. I had my spicy candles there, and my tarot, gauzy black shawls for curtains. J.T. said it gave him the creeps. Called me a witch.

Called me worse than that the day he threw me out.

Never was much of a cook. But I could always fry up meat and onions. Pork and onions, chicken and onions, steak and onions. Yeah, good stuff. I loved the smell of onions frying. I grab several of them and start chopping.

J.T., now he liked the garage. He had all his woodworking stuff there, his shop. All kinds of sharp pointy objects. He loved those things. He’d spend his time out there, cleaning and polishing them and making all kinds of freaking useless wooden creations. He even made himself a baseball bat. Carved the handle with fingerholds and engraved his name. Fitting, somehow. He had to possess everything. It was all about what he had, what he’d earned. Even though I’d helped with everything about the house, mowing the grass, decorating, painting, down payment and all, it was still his, far as he was concerned.

I wipe tears away. Damn onions. They were good in the end, but they hurt you while you held them. Kind of like J.T.

He was devoted to the holy dollar, an investment counselor who’d traded in his black convertible with sleek lines for the testosterone symbol designer Hummer with his initials on his California tag. He’d made lots of money for lots of people and he took credit for each penny. If his belt had been long enough, he’d have notched the damn thing, but it was a mere 30 inches, even at 32 years old. An hour in the gym at 5 every morning will do that. Yes, it will.

He lifted weights too. He was strong. Stronger than I’d thought.

I reach in the fridge and pull out one of those bag salads and a tomato. The lettuce goes in a bowl and I slice the tomato up on top of it, so juicy the red pulp and seeds drip out through my fingers like bad Halloween makeup. It reminded me of something else.

I hadn’t seen him for six months before that morning. He wanted to be left alone, I was willing to leave him alone. Then I saw them. Him. Her. They were at our favorite restaurant, the vegetarian one. I stopped in to pick up an order to go and there they were, cuddled close in a small yellow ginghamed booth, eating nasturtium salad. He saw me and said something to her. She looked over and saw me too. She was blonde, like me, about my height and weight, greeny eyes like mine, even. Of course she was a good ten years younger. Bastard.

The onions jump and squirm as I stir them in the pan like they’re trying to avoid the searing heat. Where else are they going to go? Into the fire?

I know what happens when you go from the frying pan into the fire. I laugh, the sound echoing in the nearly empty kitchen. Furniture, kind of a luxury at the moment. Sold the kitchen set to make my last car payment. I hate living this way.

I turn up the fire and drizzle the olive oil in.

He couldn’t leave it alone then, not J.T. He could have ignored me and gone on with his lunch. But he got up, ran over and grabbed my elbow. He begged me to consider signing the divorce papers. J.T. begging me. Now there was a novelty.

He said he’d sent the papers to my attorney. She’d sent them to me, I guess. It was here somewhere. Maybe in the pile of newspapers waiting to be recycled. Never seemed to be much of a priority.

There was an extra copy at the house, he said. He wanted me to just come by and sign them and he’d get them to his lawyer. Me #2 was watching from the booth, wide green eyes nearly innocent. Come on, Raila. Sign the papers. It’ll be over in no time. You’ll see.

I did want to be in the house again, at least once more. Bracing myself against what I guessed must have happened to the place since Little Susie Sunshine had been staying there, I nodded. Now’s great, J.T. Want to do it now? I looked over at her and smiled my biggest smile.

Triumphant, he tossed some bills at the cashier. Put hers on my tab too. He took the girl in his car and I followed on my bike. Cheaper than paying for gas at California prices.

At the house, I parked the bike behind the front bushes so no one would steal it and walked around to the back. The garage was closed and the landscaping in the back yard, the perennials I’d spent months coordinating and planting and nurturing were ripped out. Instead there was a concreted basketball court and a Bowflex with a shelf of free weights. I stood there and stared. I stood there.

I cut two slices of bread from the fresh Italian loaf and slather butter and garlic on. Dining alone means never having to say you’re sorry for your breath. It’s a good knife, this filleting knife, cuts cleanly. It’s a souvenir.


Raila. In here.

J.T. was standing at the door to the sunporch. Tearing my gaze away from the ravaged plantings, I saw the gauzy curtains were down and there was a tanning bed where my desk had been. I nodded without comment and followed him into the house, closing the door behind me. He laid a stack of papers on the kitchen table, (new polished oak instead of our old Danish modern) and jabbed at me with a pen. Three minutes and you’re free, honey.

She was watching, eyes greener than before with coveting. She wanted him. How she wanted him. Why shouldn’t she? Living with J.T. was a great ride, lots of money, all the fringes. Till she gets ten years older. Then she’ll be the one with the pen waving in her face.

I took the pen, then turned and walked out of the kitchen, heading for the garage. He ran after me, grabbing at my arm. I need my grandfather’s tool kit, I said. You didn’t leave it in that rubbish heap on the curb. I shoved him away and kept on, going through the door and down the two steps to the garage floor. She was trying to calm him. There was J.T.’s precious Hummer and the teenybopper’s red convertible. The bastard.

I leaned down under the main workbench and dug through his crap until I found the little black case. I held it up so he could see I hadn’t taken anything that wasn’t mine. Not his tools, not his keys, not his house, not his woman...

He walked over, clearly annoyed and ready to escort me out. Sad. I wasn’t ready to go. I just wanted to leave a little memento. Miss Priss was standing protectively in front of her car. I smiled at her. Then I grabbed the bat off the workbench and took a swing at the convertible. Busted out two headlights before she got in the way. Then I busted out her headlights too. Hadn’t really intended to do that, but Jesus it felt good.

J.T. jumped me from behind. Damn he was strong and he must have outweighed me by 70 pounds, all muscle. All those weights out back. He tossed me over onto the workbench and I felt my knee crack. Bloody hell it hurt. Nearly blacked out.

He came for me then. The new and improved Me hadn’t moved from her heap on the floor but he never stopped to check her out. I kicked at him with my other leg from where I was on the workbench, fumbled behind me for something to stop him with. Screwdriver from Hell jumped into my hand, sucker had to be 10 inches long and just strong enough with my downstroke and his momentum to drive it right through his face into his brain. He knocked me off in a hail of tacks and nails but he went down and he didn’t get up, either.

I lay a china plate and silverware on the coffee table. Thank you, Mr. Maitre D. One for dinner, please. I light the pink candle and dim the lights.

It was quiet in that garage, so quiet. I could hear neighborhood kids calling to each other as they rode up and down the street. My legs were bleeding from the tacks, and I wasn’t sure whether I could walk. But I was in the best shape of the three of us. Had to look on the bright side. Took me a couple of minutes to put the pain in the back and my predicament in the front.

Once I got my priorities straight it all fell into place. Thanks J.T. for looking out for your poor defenseless ignorant little woman. He’d been so convinced that I couldn’t handle anything in his fine tool collection that he’d forced me to take one of those classes at the community college designed just for women, to teach them about tools and repairs and being able to fix things with the proper equipment. Our teacher had been another bastard, a sadist. He liked to scare some of the more timid students. He’d showed us one day how easy it was if you didn’t take good care of your electrical cords and they got frayed they could be dangerous. Especially if they came in contact with a lacquer or varnish container. He’d exploded several, just to demonstrate.

It didn’t take long to fray up one of J.T.’s extension cords, not with the wonderful selection of sharp things he’d accumulated. There was plenty of varnish and lacquer too, left over from that little wooden crap he had all over. Light it and it wouldn’t take long to burn it all down.

One last thing remained before the ashes. I dug through the drawer and found the filleting knife he used for his rare fishing trips. It had cost a fortune. But then he always had to have the best. Why shouldn’t I?

I smile as I sit down to the table to enjoy my solitary meal, my sad cuisine. It was a dish I hadn’t made before. Ribs and onions. But it was good to try new things, and a specialty’s a specialty, after all.

And the tv chefs are right. Younger meat is more tender.