"Dont. F*cking. Touch me" she says as she sits up in bed, looks away, out the window, wrapping her arms around herself. The lights of North Sydney are awaking. Red and gold sky moves in through the window, licks her wounds. She tries to hide her face in the hair wrapped around her shoulders. Her stupid painting is on the wall. She tries to stretch but her rib is broken. It hurts to breathe. It has not been a nice night. She has learnt to just swallow, be quiet, patch up what she can, see a doctor if needed. Usually it was sort of mostly fine, would fix itself. It didn't last long. He was always sorry the next day. Genuinely sorry. He didn't understand why it kept happening. He said it would stop. Love means you stay. In sickness and in health, for better for worse.
She wore a dress he liked, at the start. There were cut out bits around the waist. Playful? The heels were high. After a few drinks the dress apparently made her look like something nasty. It started in the restaurant.
"You look like a stupid whore." She starts to cry. She knows where this is going.
"Would madam like a tissue?" said the waiter.
"Yes please."
She looks him in the eye. "You are being cruel. You are behaving like a c*nt."
"How dare you call me that."
"Perhaps sir is a c*nt" says the waiter calmly, emptying the bottle of Sav Blanc into his glass. Looking back, she would laugh at that part.
It only made him angrier. They sorted out the bill and left. Her heels felt stupid. The pink lipstick was garish in retrospect, like something a docile clown might wear to please its vicious audience. When dead angels try to act like women, when balmy summer's nights tell lies. She knew what was coming. A nice evening in Balmoral. The bit in between.
A morning of promises and begs for atonement and redemption. I wish both of those to him. They are, however, not mine to give. He never meant to. He doesn't know why. I will forgive you and I will stay until you are ready to stop or you go too far. We shall see.
