Author's Note: I wrote this for a writing challenge. Basically you had to come up with a short story about a stereotype and switch it around. I decided to choose a couple in the '50s where many authors write about women being abused by their husbands during that time. The start of the story begins when perhaps a person or a friend asks my character how his wife is doing.

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Hmm, interesting you ask about her. She was, quite frankly, a bad wife.

I'm not exactly sure why I detested her. It wasn't a hate or an absolute fear. More of the feeling of wanting to run than anything else. . .ha, that's it. That's the one! The feeling of total bothersome! A dread, my wife was. An utter dread.

Alone, the woman was always miserable. Sure, from time to time she'd. . .hm, what? Enjoy the company of her fellow girlfriends? Jesus, what a laugh it was to see her play pretend among her friends like some frilly tea party in the back of those women magazines. Here I was watching her closely through the dining room observing. It was as if. . .nothing was wrong between us! As if we all belonged to this perfect circle of friends and eloquent movements. The neighbors and the grocery boys and the stars in all those movies! She might complain to her best friend about a meaningless thing now and again but it was always so well natured and so forgiving.

What many people didn't see inside the house was myself. Most of the time I was doing chores for my wife or following orders. Hiding along the stairs or rooms like the good husband I was. Of course, my wife's friends knew my name. It was always heard! Picture the screamings of "Thurman, go fix the sink!" or "Thurman, make dinner! We have company!"

She was the King of the House, she was. Holding up her broomstick staff with glaring, greedy eyes. She never smirked stingily towards me or took joy in my tortures but just carried on a look of pure hatred that only I could see when everyone thought she was so sweet. Lovely little thing, wasn't she?

Don't get me wrong! She was a woman! A beautiful woman, for sure! Wasn't like she carried around a penis in her purse. She was just so dominant and controlling. Why, she actually appeared to be a graceful woman behind the long sundresses and bright-colored eyes. She wasn't anything like she portrayed herself, though. Instead, she led me around. Took force and all of that with beating voice that only I could cringe secretly.

So what does that leave me? The woman? I'll admit I'm not exactly Lawrence Trieney. I am a rather tall but that's about it as far as masculinity stereotypes go except for the haircut. Was I the one to prepare T.V. dinners and wear the pantyhose? I'll assure you that would not be a very pretty thought. It wasn't like I had any control. If I had old Joe Roberts coming by for a drink and taste of beer, no, no, no! Thurman, we're having dinner! We don't have time for your buddies to run in here!

I felt trapped with my own wife! Wasn't I supposed to be the one in control? Wasn't I supposed to be mean and harsh without the woman saying a word? How did I end up playing the victimized wife against the abusive husband? Since when did I marry a brutal man trapped in the body of a feminine woman?

So, was it really. . .wrong of me to grope the back of my scissors with frustration when she was trailing over one day, ready to screech at me for leaving the screen door open? Could I really be blamed for the accident as I, by mistake, of course, sliced her by the shoulder after she shoved me? It wasn't as if I killed her but I might as well. When you've become the formulaic 'abusive husband' of this generation in this particular charming town, you might as well be a murderer.

So here I am now. Hiding away along other towns spending my time and talking. Sure as hell beats listening to that wife. Having absolutely no one to talk to and hiding dark glances from her and everyone else. . .

Hmm. . .so how's your wife?