He heard her coming even before she unlocked the door and pushed it closed behind herself, throwing the keys on the table and stepping out of her shoes, leaving them in the middle of the room. The acrid bitterness of her mood palpable to his senses, he didn't open his eyes. She smelled of smoke and he frowned to himself. She hadn't bought cigarettes in twelve days, and that was enough of a rebellion in itself. She wouldn't blame him of course, she never did, and he would have to endure her remorse later. And her apologies. Later.
Turning on his side to watch her, she didn't look at him yet, although she knew he was awake. She didn't want to be reminded, to see the hot red marks she had left on his chest hours earlier, after which she had torn off her nails and left them in a neat pile beside the computer. He could hear her breathing, hear her go to the bathroom and brush her teeth, hear her throw the pack in the trash, hear her wash her face and undress, hear her slip a tee-shirt over her head (at which he frowned again), hear her inhale deeply and let it go in a rush. He could smell her sweat and the always-underlying hint of vanilla.
Stubborn in her own way, hostile at perceived indifference and fighting her own belligerent self-hatred, neither of them spoke. Moving to the bed then, she sat on the bottom edge of it, between his feet, and turned on the computer - waiting for it to boot up in heavy silence. She was pale and he could make her out easily enough in the gloom, the light from the street sufficient for her to work by and more than adequate for him. He was used to that being all there was. His own choice most of the time.
As she reached for the mouse, he sat up and gripped her wrist, moving her arm across her belly to shift his grasp to the other hand while his now-free right one took the mouse himself and shut the machine back down, feeling her tense at the intrusion. He knew her, she would have been disappointed had he left her to do, though she would put up some unconvincing fuss he was sure.
"Where did you go?"
"Out."
"You were gone a long time, did you get lost?"
"No..."
"Did you go on the Metro?"
"Yes..."
"Did you switch lines?"
"No. No I didn't switch lines! Why are you asking me that? I went out, I came back... What else would I do, I have nowhere else to go here. Did you follow me?"
"No."
"You thought I would not come back?"
"I knew you would come back, where else do you have to go here?" he mimicked. "A motel? Even so you would have had to come back, eventually."
She cried then, one arm still across her stomach, and he pulled her back against his bare chest and breathed into her hair. They didn't fight often, and she had never lashed out at him so violently, never left a mark on him until tonight, or he on her. He let her weep until she was finished, and handed her a Kleenex without saying anything. She blew her nose and he took the used tissue from her, tossing it on the floor beside the bed and pulling her back with him, lying her down and smoothing the hair away from her face.
Seeing her settled, he left her to get up and get a glass of water, returning with it and sitting down, his legs crossed to allow him to face her.
"Drink."
She did of course, she always did. Struggling to sit up first, she drank it slowly. Slowly enough to not throw it up, too fast for it not to be unpleasant. She tried not to pull a face, but he could tell she did. She was, as usual, unhappy about it. When would she ever not be? He watched her patiently, his own anger long evaporated. He wouldn't tell her how he had worried, paced the floor, looked out the window. She knew. And she knew he knew she knew.
"Let me see."
She winced, her shoulders jerking slightly as she turned her face to look out the window, Suji only partially obscuring her view. The cat had been curled there all this time, unaffected by their exchanges. He opened his eyes and looked at her as if he could feel her own on him. His regard lasted only a second before he closed them again, and she thrust the glass back at the man without answering.
He took it and set it on the floor, straightening again to reach for her shoulders and turn her more to face him, shaking her gently, his fingers strong and determined. "Let. Me. See."
She struggled with herself for what seemed a long time, keenly aware that it would do no good to lie, to deny it, or to put it off. He shouldn't have to know and he shouldn't have to look. She wished he hadn't asked, that he would have waited and just seen tomorrow, or in the shower later. She wished she could turn back time.
"Tomorrow."
"Now."
She moved suddenly, lurching forward to escape his interrogations, but he was as quick, grabbing her hips to pull her back roughly, bouncing her onto the mattress only for her to roll off the other side and stand there trapped between the wall and the bed, his eyes never leaving her, though he had released her easily enough. She flushed, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as she breathed in ragged gulps, torn between guilt, rage, fear, and passion.
Making her decision, she peeled off the tee shirt to reveal the gashes that almost matched his own. Deeper, perhaps. Bloodier, certainly. Her own choice, as always. Again. The blood was still sticky, still oozing from the wounds, and she ran a palm across them in some satisfaction of her own; she couldn't help it. He wasn't surprised of course, but he didn't have to like it, and he rushed at her, catching her shoulder and pulling her into the bathroom - throwing the curtain open as he pushed her into the stall. He turned on the water, and its cold spray made her cry out. He held her there, waiting for it to warm before stepping in himself and soaping her down, his brow furrowed in distress and concentration.
"I'm sorry."
"I know..."
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