“You won’t do it!” she screamed at the idling car directly ahead. He put the car in neutral and revved the engine.

​​

*

​​

     The first time Natasha laid eyes on him he was leaning over to hang his coat on a hook by the front door; his ass stretched out its hand and said ‘hello, nice to meet ya.” It was tight, she remembered; you could bounce a shiny quarter off it or slide your credit card straight through. It gave her the shivers and awakened a sleeping giant. Finally, someone to shake up the dust that settled when all the old people got together.

     Being more of a tit man himself, Natasha’s pancake chest just didn’t do it; Nice face I guess, was his first thought, then moved on. When her cousin Vickie came in a flurry to greet them and offer him a drink, his eyes met her ample bosom and told them he’d like an “Alabama Slammer, if you’d be so kind”, and licked his fat lower lip.

     Natasha's brother weaved his friend through the family tree; they learned he was a transfer student from a small-town southern college, here on an “ath-uh-let-ic” scholarship. To which her uncles, in various stages of drunkenness, regaled their tales of youthful athleticism, all of which ended in “what-if’s” and “could-have’s”. Meanwhile, pop pop sank into his chair and heard nothing.

     At the dinner table, it did not escape the young man’s attention that cousin Vickie’s breasts threatened to spill out every time she reached for the mashed potatoes. He kept asking her to pass him this and please pass him that; pass him whatever-the-fuck-it-was throughout the entire course of the meal. Natasha chewed her green beans in envy and watched her cousin spring up like a god damn jack-in-the-box for the tenth time.

     Afterwards, the girls huddled in the kitchen corner and compared notes, while the aunties scuttled in and out, balancing rickety stacks of dirty dishes, and throwing good-natured insults at each other.

     “Girl, you saw how he was looking at you?” Natasha whispered.

     “Girl, yesss, got me feeling like the god damn Venus d’Milo”, Vickie replied.

     “Well, you LOOKED like the god damn jack-in-the-box”, Natasha confessed. “Jus how many time he ask you to ‘please pass the mash-puh-tay-duh, darlin’?”

     They snorted and slapped each other arms.

     Vickie’s breasts jiggled in her bra.

    

     From that dinner on, the young man haunted them. Holidays, barbeques, birthday parties, and even one funeral; he was there, lickin his lip, panting and slobbering whenever Vickie ran into him, tits first. When she left for college, it took a few disappointed visits for the man to piece it together. By that time, he was graduating college with a degree in Business and a minor in cheating. Natasha was starting a waitress job at the local diner, where they served their coffee, burnt and toast, dry.

     She heard him before she saw him; belligerent and surrounded by a group of even dumber buddies. They slid into one of the large curved booths in the back, half cloaked in baggy graduation gowns. Natasha sauntered over with a stack of sticky menus and tossed them on the table.

     “Shit, I di’in know you worked here Tasha”, he said laughing, amused.

     “Jus’ started”, she replied, bored. His buddies gawked.

     “Congrats”, she added, gesturing to his gown with her pen.

     He smiled wide and drawled a “’Preciate you”; then kissed his teeth and eyed her uniform.

     After scribbling down their orders, she started back; she heard a, “Yo, you know that girl?” behind her, followed by a collective teasing. That put a sly smile on her face.

     It took some convincing, but by dessert, Natasha felt like she was finally “that” girl. It put a swing in her hips, a flirt in her tone, and an in-your-dreams glint in her eyes. She liked it, yes, she did, and welcomed their long, penetrating looks and suggestive remarks. After they left, she picked at the loose change between the crumbs and noticed an inky message on a damp napkin: YOU LOOKING GOOD TASHA. Under it, a phone number with bleeding numbers.

    

     He had tentacle hands, she learned; they stuck to her clothes and sucked her in. Her mama – and every woman for that matter - had put the fear of god into her about giving it all up on the first date; something about popsicles, she tried to remember through her drunken haze. But, oh man, his hands were big, his arms, strong, and his voice undressed her with every word. She melted into him.

     Their sex was pussy-pounding, ass-clapping, soul-leaking sex. He made her feel like a woman, Like a woman should feel, she thought. She let him have it when he wanted, where he wanted, how he wanted. She would listen to the foot thumping, tambourine swinging, praise Jesus songs of the Baptist church while receiving communion behind the closed door of a supply closet. Halleluiah, amen.

     It should have surprised no one – yet it did – when she turned up pregnant. Following the announcement, the worst possible thing that could happen happened – they got married. The ceremony was set at tempo Prestissimo; it was a blur of cake, cheap fabric, and cheaper liquor. Natasha chugged two flutes of champagne before getting caught, and threw it all up choking on hubby’s cock later that night.   

     They moved into a small apartment at the edge of town where Mister - as she grew accustomed to calling him - got a job as a sales man and Natasha stayed home with the baby. The last time they had sex was the day before the vacuum cleaner sucked up a pair of panties that weren’t hers.

     “Exactly whose are these” she said, shoving them into Mister’s face.

     He stretched the panties out with two fingers, dumb-struck, his mind spinning like the dials of a slot machine before landing on, “These not yours?” in a tone a couple octaves higher than usual.

     She ripped the lace from his hands, held it up to his nose and shook it, “Do these look like something I can fit into?”

     Mister threw his hands up, “Shit, I dunno”, and shifted his head from side to side like a wet noodle, avoiding her death glare.

     The baby cried in the next room.

     “You will not disrespect me like this” she spat, slicing the air between them with a stiff finger. 

     Mister didn’t respond.

     That night, Natasha heated a large pot of water on the stove. She heaved it to the couch and dumped it over his sleeping body. It wasn’t hot enough to burn, she realized too late. Mister howled, jumped to his feet, and caught her neck. Steam rose from his skin like Hades; the pot crashed to the ground; the baby began to shriek. She stared into the whites of his eyes, both hands tugging at his wrist, and tried to get out the words I - can’t - breathe, when the neighbor’s thumping fist rattled the door and saved her.

     Years passed. Seeing how neither of them wanted to go to jail - or lose custody of their child - they continued their physical and verbal abuse in a hushed manner. Neighbors never stayed long enough to get involved, but family members stepped in on occasion. The police flirted with their situation, but no direct accusations were ever made. Naturally, things escalated.

 

*

​

     “You won’t do it!” Natasha screamed at the idling car directly ahead. Mister put the car in neutral and revved the engine. The neighbors poured into the street. Some of them started to dial; most of them just watched. Natasha planted her feet and twitched her fingers like an old western gunslinger. Mister shifted the gear stick into drive, returned his right hand to two o’ clock, and stepped on the gas.

​

     By the time the ambulance came and they slapped her on the operating table, she had lost a lot of blood; they had to amputate both feet. Her report read: Natasha is a 53 y.o. woman who was involved in a traumatic person vs motor vehicle event. She sustained bilateral compound fractures of her fibulas and presents today for guillotine amputation. Following surgery, each foot was placed in a separate bucket and carted to a lab deep within the bowels of the hospital, where a working girl received them and uncapped the lids. The same girl would later tell her co-worker, “You know…some relationships just aren’t worth it,” and think to herself, This would make a good story.

​