the morning after he hits you for the first time
There will be coffee made, early, dark with only a hint of cream, just the way you like it. He will have tried to make an omelette only to have failed miserably, burnt edges and slick grease stains, but, you will think, it’s the thought that counts. The morning after he hits you, he will do all the chores for the day, including walking the dog, which he hates, including shopping for groceries, which he abhors. And the morning after he hits you, you will almost forget about the night before.
He will make love to you later in the evening, the day after he hit you, and will kiss you so tenderly it feels like a bird dancing across your face. He will pin your arms above your head, but gently, just the way you like it. He will light incense. He will make you feel like the most beautiful woman for miles. Maybe the most beautiful woman for continents.
The morning after he hits you, your tongue will sit like a stone in your mouth. This thing is unspoken between you. You want to ask if he regrets it, if he meant it. If the thought of his hand against your face and arms hurts his heart as much as it hurt your skin. But, like someone who prizes their comfort above their desire, you will not ask. And it will fester inside.
The morning after he hits you, you will see an anchorman on the news talking about the woman in Kansas whose husband shot her in the back after an argument over jealousy. You will be drinking your coffee by now, the mug with only a hint of cream, just the way you like it. You will avoid eye contact with him as the anchorman talks about “the victim,” how she spent years trying to leave only to return again out of love. Between you, there is something unsaid. That could never happen to you. There are women out there like her, but you are not one of them. That could never happen to you.
And so, the morning after he hits you, the coffee will burn bitter in your stomach, but only slightly. There’s still a hint of cream to drown out the blackness. It’s winter outside, with the air sliding crisp across the trees, two lost children’s gloves hanging from the branches outside like a mobile, or a windchime with its vocal cords cut out. Something that knows how to speak but has long since lost its ability.
You still love him. And you know he still loves you. This is just how he expresses it. But at least he expresses it at all. And he did promise he’d always be there, that no one could ever love you the way he does. He’s saved you from everyone in your life who only wanted to hurt you. There aren’t many people left in your life now, but that’s alright. They weren’t good for you anyway.
Even the neighbors don’t recall your name. They might have run into you, once, maybe last Thanksgiving, on your way to the grocery store to buy a frozen turkey for dinner. Your parents couldn’t make it that year, or maybe you were told not to remind them, you can’t remember which. He wanted to spend a quiet night at home that year, and that’s what you did, falling asleep in one another’s arms in the slow haze of post-meal whiskey, and everything was as soft and still as the bloated snowflakes falling outside the windows.
That’s what you remember, the morning after he hits you. How quiet and small the world is with just the two of you, but how enormous at the same time. He’s given you everything you could ever want, that’s what he always says.
The morning after he kills you, the neighbors finally learn your name.
titsay
janainaart
germansingergirl
ellievsbear
discoholicmusic
dailybridgerton
gummygunk
blakekathryn
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