Bedside table

George squinted and spat out his question. “Martha, where are my reading glasses?”

She wanted to answer 'Up your ass, you jerk' but reminded herself, they’d agreed to be nice to each other in therapy. “I’ll get them, darling. I put them in your nightstand last week.”

“Make it snappy, darling,” George said, placing an accent so heavy on the last word, Martha heard 'You uptight bitchy witch' between the lines. “I’m trying to read my American Spectator.”

She’d just have to dawdle. Passive-aggressive behavior was highly underrated, Martha thought, even though Daphne had scolded her for it. Therapy could be a drag. Anger had to come out, one way or the other. Finally she opened his nightstand drawer.

Funny, Martha thought, what’s that open box? Condoms? They hadn’t used condoms in ten years. Not much need, after all, she’d long since gone through menopause. She looked in – the box was open – and did inventory. Three condoms missing from the box’s ten. Hmm. Back in the condom days George had always gone through three of them – every time they had sex.

She found the glasses, stomped on them, hid them under the mattress, and walked back out to the living room. “Funny, darling, I can’t find your glasses anywhere.”

Martha wondered if George heard 'You idiot cocksucker asshole, you’ve ruined my life' in the contours of her “darling.”