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One split lip later, the fighters sit in absorbed silence. She wants to apologize for her words, but she can’t speak. He breaks the silence first, “I’m sorry, I just…I don’t know what ha…I…well…” She holds up her hand as she nurses her lip with a napkin. She wants to tell him not to apologize, it’s not the first split lip he’s given her. And every time he apologizes, she expects only the worst to happen next time. Her thoughts are seen in her face, “What stings more, the silence, the lip, or the…the what? The death of us? Me, him, us as a whole?”
There used to be a time when everything was “just peachy.” The flowers, the treats, the gifts that were given just because. The affection was publicly displayed and everything was too picture perfect. The ring, the wedding, and the honeymoon were simple. The first six months were simple. The time following all of that became a Lifetime movie. He drank, they argued, a violent fight ensued. She’d throw so many things at him, including the toaster which her mother gave them as a wedding gift, a case that she kept from the first time he sent her flowers at her job, a stiletto heel she once bought to surprise him with for a romantic night, that was the first time he hit her. That stiletto caught him straight in the face, right above the eye. He gave her a black eye for that one.
She sat there in silence, refolded her bloody napkin. She contemplated the past long enough, but what of the future? She figured no matter what action she took, she’d become one of those “Lifetime” women who’s sob stories were converted into pathetic movies that mirrored her life. They all had the same happy beginning, same sad middle, and one of three endings. They either fought back, they ran away and started anew, or they died. She wondered, “Which will be my ending? With my luck, it won’ be any of those three. I’ll sit here and continually take it until old age, when I’ll die of a heart attack or something stupid.”
She let out a sound almost like laughter, but her swollen lip wouldn’t let it go far. He looked up, “What?” She shook her head to indicate “Nothing.” Slowly she got up, looked at her watch, 7:12 PM. What was the argument about anyways? Does it matter at this point? She felt her stomach make a rumble. These fights always left her exhausted and hungry. “How strange,” she thought, “Is this the correct feeling to have? Doesn’t matter.”
She picked up the pan from where she dropped it after he struck her, after she swung at him with it. She mumbled at him, “Chithen or stheak?” The split lip gave her a lisp. He thought for a moment, hung his head in shame, “Chicken…please. If it’s not too much…trouble,” the last part came out almost inaudibly. She quietly prepared dinner and served it. He came to the table, sat down and said grace. She gave a weak and phony smile, cut a tiny piece of chicken, and tried to slowly chew. They ate in silence.
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