Then the entire grill tipped.
It crashed onto the patio with a metallic roar.
Plates cracked beneath it.
Steaks slid through melted ice and barbecue sauce while smoke curled around Ivan’s expensive shoes.
His beer had fallen beside him, soaking the cuff of his pants.
For the first time that afternoon, he looked at me as though I were not furniture, staff, or an extension of his reputation.
He looked at me as though I had become dangerous.
I stood in the wreckage with my injured hand pressed against my chest.
Then I smiled.
It was not because the pain had stopped.
My palm felt as though it were still touching the grate.
I smiled because the broken grill was finally an honest picture of our marriage.
Ruined in public.
Impossible to hide.
“You think this is funny?” Ivan asked.
His voice had dropped to a whisper, but everyone close to us could hear it.
