The goldfish bowl teetered, but my resolve did not.
The pounding on my door at 1 a.m. rattled me; withdrawing the knife from the kitchen drawer calmed me.
Going to the door, I said, “Who is there?”
“Open the door, you fucking bitch,” he bellowed. I jerked back, knocking the small table next to it. I reached out and steadied the fish bowl.
More pounding on the door; more demands to open it.
Smiling, I unlocked the door and stepped back. “Come on in,” I said, raising the knife.
I had always wanted to do this.