"Good morning," he says without looking up.
I don't answer. I grab a glass, pour water, drink.
I turn my back to him on purpose.
Do I feel bad? No. And on the off chance I start to feel bad, I just replay the sound of his hand hitting my face in my head.
"You sleep alright?" he tries again.
I hate that. God, I hate it so much. He always does this.
He snaps one day, acts like nothing happened the next. I stare at the wall above the sink.
"Fine," I say flatly.
He clears his throat. "I, uh. I shouldn't have raised my voice yesterday."
Excuse me?
I actually turn my head to see if anyone else heard that or if I'm hallucinating.
Raised his voice. Am I delusional?
My cheek literally had a full red handprint stamped on it for ten minutes.
Did I imagine that part?
Was that my overactive imagination and some light breeze that happened to feel like an open palm across my face?
Because as far as I remember, his voice was pretty much attached to his hand.
"You didn't just raise yourvoice," I say. "You slapped me."
He shifts in his seat, the mask slipping just for a second.
"You were provoking me."
I go cold, then I laugh.
Someone please stop this insanity.
I provoked him. Of course.Of coursethat's the fucking story.
He steps closer and puts his hand on my shoulder, trying to turn me so I'll face him.
I grab his wrist and shove his hand down off me.
First time I ever react that fast.
He's almost startled.
I step back, eyes steady. "Don't raise your hand to me again."
I say. "Ever."
He freezes.
I hold his stare a moment longer. What is he gonna do? Hit me again?
