Two months ago, that pit finally burst open. We went to this upscale Italian restaurant with our friends Emily and Mark. Our waitress was young and had a nervous smile.
You could tell she was new. When she came back to take our order, she mixed up Jason’s side dish and brought mashed potatoes instead of fries. Jason didn’t just correct her.
He sneered at her, loud enough for half the restaurant to hear, “Do they hire anyone with a pulse here?”
Naturally, the girl’s face went bright red. She stammered out an apology and rushed back to the kitchen. But Jason wasn’t done.
When the waitress returned with the correct order, Jason took his used napkin and tossed it on the floor next to her feet. Then, he looked up at her with this cruel smile and said, “You missed a spot. Pick it up.
NOW!”
At that point, everyone was looking at Jason. The poor waitress bent down with her face flushed red and picked up his napkin without a word. That night, I didn’t say a word to Jason on the drive home.
He seemed completely oblivious, humming along to the radio like nothing had happened. When we got back to our apartment, he kissed my forehead and said, “Great night, huh?”
Then he went to bed like he hadn’t just humiliated another human being for sport. I locked myself in the bathroom and cried in the shower while he snored peacefully in our bedroom.
I let myself feel everything I’d been pushing down for months. The shame, the anger, and the disappointment. But somewhere between the crying and the steam, something shifted inside me.
I just didn’t want to leave Jason, but I wanted him to understand why. I wanted him to feel, even for one second, the humiliation he dished out so easily to people who couldn’t fight back. By morning, I had a plan.
