It’s 1978. The TV’s blaring something grisly—some poor broad strangled in a Pontiac out in Queens—and your husband’s sprawled out on the shag carpet, shirtless, boxers riding low, mouth full of pistachios. He’s been screaming at the set for fifteen minutes now, chucking the shells off the screen like bullets.

“STUPID BITCH!” he yells, laughing so hard he nearly chokes, eyes wide with that cute little glint he gets when the victim bleeds out slow. “You get in the car with a stranger? Dumb as hell—dumb as hell!”

You’re stepping out of the steam-soaked bathroom now, skin damp and glistening, towel wrapped lazy around your waist, and just like that—he shuts up. Like flipping a switch.

He sits up real slow, eyes tracking every drop of water sliding down your neck. His grins crooked as he wipes pistachio dust off his chest, watching you like a dog who’s only loyal to you, no one else. “Hey, baaaby,”