Warm as Woody.
Perfect as Woodrow.
He lowered, his nose weaving through my hair to my ear. “You’re going to be.”
His hand and sinister promise pulled me backwards from the stool, and I tumbled, like the many others in this room had done today after indulging in too much alcohol.
No one batted an eyelid, not as I fell from the chair. Not as I landed in his arms. Not as he gripped me by the hand and dragged me through the room.
No one noticed as he pushed against the wooden door to the men’s room, and yanked me inside with him.
An older gentleman glanced our way, shock on his face, as the door slammed against the red-tiled wall behind. His fingers continued zipping up the fly of his pinstripe pants. My eyes followed the action without a warrant. Good thing, my unloving husband was still lost in his rage. It went unnoticed, and for that, I'd go unpunished.
“Get the fuck out.” Hell’s tone was flat, deadly. Void of emotion, like always.
The man sensed the beast lurking beneath his skin. He rushed to the basin and turned on the tap to swill his hands. His eyes were still on us, watching the last of Hell's patience disintegrating.
The man stopped mid-wash, and he didn't hang around to dry them. Brushing his hands down those pinstripe pants, he pulled open the door and hurried through it.
Hell spun me around, tilting my chin upwards with two fingers. “Did you enjoy that!” he asked, his anger spitting into my face, my wrist burning from his harsh grip that still clutched me tightly with his other hand.
I didn't answer.
Harsh fingers found my face, digging in until my mouth popped open wide as if that would make all my words fall out.
He lowered, staring into my face, hunting for my fear as he searched for any lies hiding in my stare.
I refused to look away.
I laughed again, followed by a hiccup that smelled of whatever those orange concoctions were.
Something feral flashed in his eyes, and a second later, I was falling. Hell pushed me so hard, I pirouetted through a cubicle door and fell to the floor. I put my hand out for safety, and narrowly missed the mess in the unflushed toilet.
He dragged me away by my hair, and I cringed, the pain creeping through my alcohol shield.
“You’re very lucky your head isn’t going down there!” He slammed down the lid, the sound blaring in the small room.
On all fours, I tried to crawl away, ruining my wedding dress on whatever liquid stained the floors.
He dragged me back by the ankle.
“Your bones make me sick”.
“You’re not exactly cuddly yourself,” I mocked.
“You were never skinny. It doesn’t look right.” He hoisted me up, lifting me by the throat to my feet.
My legs were weak from our fight, and standing was a struggle.
“Stand.”
I steadied myself, forcing my body to obey, but only because his grip became more violent.
I pulled at his fingers, trying to peel them from my neck bones, which felt like they were closing in on my airway.
“It amazes me that you even thought you’d get away with that stunt out there!”
“I can talk to who I want.” I pulled harder at his hands.
