Is now a good time to mention that my husband has been leaving me in increments (first the far side of the bed, then the guest room, and now, apparently, his own apartment) and I’m not taking it well?

Lease start date August 15.

Join me here, in my kitchen, with a glass of wine that’s somehow found its way into my trembling hand, staring at this sheaf of paper I’ve just discovered, that my husband has pinned to the kitchen counter with a twenty-eight-ounce can of diced tomatoes.

So.

He’s moving out.

What the fuck do we do with this? If you’re like me, you might be asking yourself this very question.

Well, what the fuck do I do with it?

I set my wine down.

The fact that he’s chosen a twenty-eight-ounce can of diced tomatoes to pin that lease to the counter suddenly feels a bit like a gauntlet.

Can you guess the pattern?

I feed people!

He could have chosen a twelve-ounce can. He could have left it on the counter with nothing holding it in place.

He could have not left the lease out at all and relayed this information with words and eye contact, but no, who am I kidding, this is Vin we’re talking about here.

Twenty-eight ounces? Game on.

I take the can and leave the lease. I don my second-favorite striped apron. The one that makes me feel like Queen Martha Stewart. I’ve never diced onions into neater squares. Never once peeled garlic with such speed. When they hit the hot oil in the pot, they sear with such a satisfying hiss I grin like the devil.