“You got a lot of nerve, Albert Toussaint. A whole lotta nerve.”

“You the one being selfish and foolish. Now, if you don’t mind, could I take my shower in peace?” He stands there wet and naked, all six feet of him, with his hands gripping both sides of his waist. I wish I could drown him for a few minutes, but I just slam the bathroom door in his face. I don’t really care about him going fishing. It’s the way he did it. He just told me he was going. He didn’t ask if I minded and didn’t bother to ask if I wanted to go with him. We do everything together. I can’t remember us ever going somewhere without the other. And, plus, deep down inside, I don’t trust Al. No man can be trusted. Period. Given a opportunity to get some free coochie, they’ll take it every single time.

I got my reasons for feeling this way, and he know it. A few years ago—but I guess it was more like ten—I was cleaning out the garage and, like a fool, tried to lift his toolbox to put it back on the workbench, but I dropped it. Screwdrivers, pliers, hammers, nails, and nuts—everything—fell out and clanged against the cement floor. I started putting the stuff back in and came across a dirty piece of crumpled-up notebook paper. I flattened it out and noticed it had writing on it, and then, as soon as I started reading, realized it was a love letter to Al from some woman who didn’t sign it. She was telling him how tired she was of doing this. That it’s been going on too long and it’s clear he ain’t getting no divorce. And then, “I love you too much but I love myself more. Call me when you’ve made your move.”

Call me when you’ve made your move? I threw every single tool, including that toolbox, at his Thunderbird, ’cause I couldn’t believe this shit. I wasn’t hurt. I felt betrayed. Double-crossed. Deceived. And as much as I loved Al, and as good as he was in bed and all the freaky shit we did together, and he’s fucking somebody else? He always swore I was the best piece he ever had. He lied. And what else did he lie about? That can’t nobody out-cook me. Can’t nobody starch and iron his shirts the way I do. Can’t nobody cut his corns without making him bleed the way I do. Hell, I should have at least a hundred gold medals for all the things I’m so damn good at. And what else did I do to please Mr. Man? Made sure I looked good all the time. One thing he claimed he loved about me most was looking at me: how black and smooth and tender my skin was, and how he loved it that men was always trying to hit on me and everybody thought my hair was a weave or a wig and nobody ever thought I was thirty-four-five-six-or-seven years old and had had three kids. Shit, back then I still wore a ten, and Al always told me how proud he was to have me for his wife. How proud. And here he was fucking somebody else? He was obviously confused, so I packed a bag and took the kids over to Aunt Suzie Mae’s house for three days. Al was frantic when he came home and we was gone. And as soon as he found out that I found out, he was worried sick I would leave him. But I had left him. That’s why I was over to Aunt Suzie’s. I was trying to figure out my next move. But he just had to come over there. Wanted to talk.