It wasn't like he needed permission

It wasn't like he needed permission to go out. He didn't need to ask her. And it wasn't like he needed permission to have friends over, either. She'd always told him he didn't need to ask.

It was more like nobody wanted to come over anymore.

That Friday night, Jessica and her friends took up all the seats in the living room. They were on their third bottle of wine. They were so loud Mike could hear half of what they said through the closed study door. He heard "That's why they call it brainwashing!" and "No Washington bureaucrat man is gonna tell me abortion is good for women."

Mike had the Colbert Report turned up so loud it was hurting his own ears, but his wife's meeting still came through in the silences. It was like being back at school, except instead of blasting Credence to cover up his neighbor's New Kids on the Block, he was blasting politics. He was just as embarrased as ever, though, for the person on the other side of the wall.

He sank lower on the couch, holding a pillow over his chest. This wasn't his fault. Was it? This terrible mismatch. He had had no idea. They'd been together six months before Jessica had said a peep about the second amendment. Or baby-killers. He wondered if he was crazy, if perhaps there had been signs he'd been blind to in his infatuation with her energy and humor. And her lips.

What about when she told him that of course she'd shot a gun before? Or the time she got on him for making fun of rednecks? At the time, he'd assumed she was a true liberal, somebody who really believed in equality and open-mindedness rather than just preaching about it. Now he wasn't sure if the mistaken assumption was more to his credit or to hers.

He could list the things he loved about her, sure. There were a thousand things. The problem was that none of them was big enough to get over... this. How can a person seem so sane when talking you through the reasons you should start your dream business and so crazy when talking you through the reasons why conservative feminists are the real feminists?

Mike turned the TV off before the show was over. He stood up and listened at the door for a moment, then opened it. None of the women looked up at him. They were howling, half in amusement and half in rage, bright-eyed, wine glasses in hand.

When the noise died down, he opened his mouth. He spoke and then there was a sharp and engulfing silence in which he realized that although he'd meant to say, "Abortion does not increase rates of child abuse," he'd somehow said, "I want a divorce."

The relief was instant. Mike blinked once and then walked to the hall closet to get his coat while every woman turned her head to watch him. This was satisfying. This was the silence he would have liked to achieve with a well-timed and cutting argument about abortion. He couldn't have, he knew now. They weren't interested.

But they sure were interested in this.

The silence still hadn't been broken, but lingered round and full and complete and perfect, by the time he closed the door behind him.

Googled "It wasn't like he needed permission to go out" and went off this image.