FIGHT NIGHT

Chad and I started live-streaming our fights after we found out insurance only covered twenty percent of our daughter’s orthodontic bill. Live-streaming was his idea, said he read about a site where people paid to watch couples, regular couples like us, he said, have sex. Not even kinky sex, he said, just normal couple sex, and there are even couples who look like us, he said, a little thick around the middle, body parts lower and looser than bodies in their thirties.

“You read about that?” I asked. “You read that they look like us?” We both know Chad’s not much of a reader.

I told Chad we were never going to have sex in front of other people, even if it were anonymous and even if the lights were dim and even if it meant we didn’t have to take out a loan for our daughter’s teeth. He said he guessed he was more willing to do anything for our family than I was, that it was okay if I wasn’t willing to sacrifice for our children, and I said, are you fucking kidding me right now, I have sacrificed everything for these children, and I put the emphasis hard on the word everything, and then he said congratulations, he’d order me a fucking trophy, and I said great idea, maybe he could go fuck himself with the trophy when it got here, and maybe he could livestream that. And then he said, maybe we should just livestream our fights.

Chad made an account for us and set up the equipment. He wanted it in the bedroom, to keep it more private, but I said the majority of our fights happen in the car or the kitchen, and we want it to feel natural, so he settled for the kitchen. We waited for the kids to go to bed and then met at the island. Chad poured himself some gin, which always makes him mean, and I opened a bottle of chardonnay, which makes me honest. What should we fight about? he asked. This is your show, I said, you pick, and then I listed a half dozen things he might choose: money, politics, cold plunging, the way he looked at Kyle’s teacher during conferences last week, why he won’t get a colonoscopy, his salmon-colored shorts.

Our first fight was awkward, choppy, and we didn’t get many viewers. Some were angry we kept our clothes on, others wanted us to get physical, one sick fucker wanted the kids to watch. We ended up angrier at LooseGoose69 than each other, and the fight fizzled into us listing things we found annoying, like how he hums when he walks or how judgy I am. Over time we improved, stopped thinking about the camera so much, stopped trying to be clever, stopped using “I” statements. We focused each fight on a single topic, something we could really dig into. Our viewers doubled and doubled and doubled again. They started taking sides. They started betting on outcomes. We started raking in the cash.

Tonight’s going to be the best fight yet. We ratcheted up the tension all day: Chad left his towel on the bathroom floor; I shaved my legs with his razor; he left his lunch dishes in the sink to soak; I watched an episode of Love Island without him; he told me he heard a guy on a podcast explain perimenopause and suggested cutting carbs would control my mood swings; I alphabetized his record collection. When I come into the kitchen, I see Chad is wearing his salmon shorts and has already poured himself a double gin and tonic. It’s his turn to choose the topic and he tells me he wants to fight about buying a boat. I smile. He’s so cute when he’s confident. But buying a boat is the most cliched, selfish, middle-aged, money-wasting, youth-chasing, pathetic-stupid-fucking idea he’s ever had. It’s a layup for me, and I almost feel bad filming it. I take the chardonnay out of the fridge and pour myself a tall glass. I sit next to him, across from the laptop.

“Cheers,” he says, and we kiss, a slow, warm, deep kiss.

“If this goes well, we’ll finally have enough money to buy the horse I’ve always wanted,” I say. I put my hand on his knee and press record.