Here’s some flash fiction from Anonymous about the simple, ordinary, maddening things that can loom large when a marriage begins to unravel:
I’m at the kitchen counter, chopping carrots. You walk into the kitchen to remind me that you don’t like carrots and peas in your shrimp fried rice. I chop harder, faster. I’m furious because you have a preference as to what goes into your shrimp fried rice. You care enough about what goes into your shrimp fried rice to come and remind me. You are not indifferent about what goes in your shrimp friend rice. But you are indifferent about me. You don’t express strong preferences about me. You don’t register strong emotions about me. I don’t move you to want me a certain way, and not some other way. After all these years–fifteen years–you don’t have a favorite way that you like me.
But now I can’t just write you off as indifferent about things in general. You’re not indifferent about life in general. No, because you do feel something about your shrimp fried rice.
So I chop the carrots, for me. You can pick them out. And the peas too. Fuck you.