The Bite 011: The Meatball Saga

(The audacity. The aroma. The betrayal.)

I have adjusted my taste buds. I’ve read labels. I’ve cried into oat milk. And Richard— RICHARD. RICHIE. RICKY THE RACCOON — decided yesterday was the day to microwave a meatball sub in our shared kitchen like he wasn’t married to a woman who could go into anaphylactic shock over a whiff of gravy.

I heard the beep.

I smelled the betrayal.

I turned around mid-chickpea and saw it:

Steam. Cheese. The sauce dripped off his finger in slow motion like Scorsese directed the meal.

Except this isn’t love. This is war.

What kind of man eats a meatball sub while his wife is out here spiraling over the ingredients in almond flour tortillas?

What kind of man— excuse me, what kind of Richard — comes in from his office, kisses my forehead like we’re a united front, and then reheats a bovine crime scene not ten feet from my quinoa?

Does he want to be a known as the guy who ends up dead because “the crazy wife” killed him over food?

Maybe he thinks Netflix would love the story?

Maybe he’s hoping there’s still a sliver of hope inside me.

Maybe he truly believes I’m still “keeping sane.”

Is that what this is?

Because listen. I didn’t choose this life. Alpha-Gal chose me.

And now, I live with a man who chooses processed meat logs wrapped in dairy-laced sin while my stomach whimpers in the background like a Victorian orphan.

And then? Then this man— this Richard — had the gall to look at me with his big brown “I love you” eyes and ask:

“Babe… do you want a bite?”

DO I WANT A BITE???

OF A DEATH-ROLL LOAF COVERED IN COW JUICE??

Oh absolutely, Richard. Let me just grab my EpiPen and funeral playlist.

I stood there, silently. Emotionless.

Like the final girl in a horror movie watching the killer monologue.

And he’s over there chewing. Chewing.

Lips smacking like we’re not days post-diagnosis and one dairy drip away from a full-body shutdown.

I could smell it on his breath.

I could see the cheese stretch like a crime scene reenactment.

And I swear on all that is gluten-free, the man had the audacity to smile.

“It’s really good. Oh shit, I’m sorry. Do you want a kiss?”

Richard.

A kiss?

Richard... if you think I am allowing you near me for the next 5 years after this stunt... you need to have your brain re-examined.

We share a mortgage.

We have children.

We said vows (via Zoom - thank you, COVID).

And yet here you are, inhaling a meatball like it’s not an act of domestic terrorism.

And for the record?

He touched my shoulder with the same hand that held that sandwich.

Just raw-dogged my sweater sleeve with sauce fingers like this was a safe house.

I slept on the very edge of the bed last night. I placed a Ziploc bag between us as a physical and spiritual barrier. I whispered, “you chose violence,” and then turned off the lamp.

He said I was being dramatic.

Happy Tuesday.

Tell Richard I said hi.

And tell him to eat his little meatballs outside.

Dom

A.K.A. TickBitChick