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Day 3 (2).

Maggie couldnt be relied upon for a rational argument. Instead, she used wrenches. Every one of Jack’s wrenches had been flung at him for a potpourri of disagreements — what to name their firstborn, their secondborn, the dog’s name, what’s for dinner (pick a night), and throwing wrenches, in particular. At first he thought she had to be fucking with him. Some perverse thrill by way of disobedience. But as time went on, as he repaired each cabinet in the kitchen, a sliding glass door, windows, the skylight — this one she threw with purpose, not even aiming at him — and household appliances, as he walked into work with shining knots on his forehead, his fingers swollen and darkly discolored, his arms puckered with deeply ugly bloodbruises, his coworkers asking if it was the monkey or the alligator that snapped at him this time, he realized, with a certain, vexing horror, that no, she wasnt just fucking with him: she wanted him dead at some point every day — that, he thought, or to become some assbackwards spokeswoman for Stanley Toolboxes, from which she drew her weaponry.

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