God, it feels good to be a crazy bitch. To stand straddle-legged in a slip dress and stilettos lashing out recriminations, nonsensical accusations that leave his mouth agape. To stop being understanding, reasonable. To rage with the heat of a thousand tigers in your heart. To shake him with your insanity, your flashing eyes, your floating hair. And, God, it feels good to accuse. To become fiery wrath — the unknowable, unreachable, eminently desirable in her glorious power Queen Bitch Motherfucker. To scream so loud, he closes the windows. To make a scene. To turn to him, mascara running, and say, YOU! YOU! God, it feels good to bolt from the table, storm out of the restaurant, sit hissing in the passenger seat, and the minute you hit the house to rise in a second wave, more terrible than the first, suck him under and spew him out, then smash, piece by piece, your grandmother’s bone china on the tiled floor. Yes, it feels good to stop preserving the past, all that handed-down misery, that nice-girl garbage cast out to the bins. And, best of all, to have saved this fully bloomed flower of your true self for just such a moment. To have the pleasure of showing him he has chosen wrong. He has made a terrible mistake.