Poised like a discus thrower, my husband hurls the sandwich-board sign advertising $5 beers at the bar window. The flimsy plastic pings off the glass. He shouts, fists curling, "Stop fucking with me!” We have come on a whim, lured by cheap alcohol, escaping the apartment and its sulfuric smell from lingering arguments. But the bar is closed. As a child, I'd stand frozen in our hallway, chest taut, listening for my father's drunken prowl, his rage echoing through the house. My husband circles the darkened bar window, an animal on the loose. Behind me, the crossing signal beeps. Walk.
Michelle Furnace Brosius is a writer who lives in beautiful Oregon with her husband and two cats. Her stories and essays have appeared in Roi Fainéant, Bending Genres, Scarlet Leaf Review, the (late) personal finance site The Billfold, Medium, and other places. Follow her at @michellefb.bsky.social
You put me on that sidewalk with you in only a few sentences. So powerful!
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