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For Us
     after Antichrist by Lars von Trier

I take it you are leaving me because you finally discovered the case of human ears I keep under the bed. I’m sorry if my little collection appalled you. But, to be fair, I did not ask you to open up that little lock with the final unfamiliar key on the ring.

I know you secretly enjoyed the camaraderie of the simulated gas attacks, the socials after the nuclear terrorism drills. But that was all television compared with the ears, and I regret that they disturbed you.

You know what I think? I think you’re using them. The ears, I mean. As an excuse to leave me. If you really loved me, you might have at least asked how I got them, rather than judging me right off the bat. The answer might surprise you.

It’s my job to sell them, door to door. The job was the only way of paying for all those things I bought you on the credit card.

The credit card company goons came in the dead of night. They can do that now. It’s you or her, they said. They threatened to repossess you. Work with us, they said, and you might be able to keep her.

So now you know where I go every morning at the crack of dawn. With my suitcase full of ears, up the stairs to the doorbell, excuse me ma’am but have you considered the advantages?

I don’t mind the ridicule.

But I’m not doing this for myself, Honey Bear. I’m doing it for us.