Page 80 of Breaking Ophelia
She doesn’t answer, just watches me before sitting at the bar, knees spread apart. The shirt rides up, flashing the bandage at her hip, the bruise painting the inside of her thigh. I wonder if she did it on purpose, if she wants me to see the evidence of my work.
I dry my hands and sit next to her, not close enough to touch, but close enough that our knees almost meet. She picks at the bandage, then drops her hand to the counter.
“What about you?” I ask.
She looks up, surprised. “What about me?”
“Boyfriends. Girlfriends. Lovers.” I say it like a list, like a menu.
She laughs, but the sound is empty. “One. A while ago. Didn’t work out.”
“Why not?”
She shrugs, but her shoulders go tight. “He didn’t like when I talked back. Said I was a bitch.” She picks at the corner of her shirt. “He was right, I guess.”
I reach for her wrist, just a brush of skin. She tenses, but doesn’t pull away.
“He hit you?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer, but the way she traces the bruise on her arm tells me enough.
“Did you break him?” I say, half a smile.
She shakes her head. “I tried. He was bigger.”
“I’m bigger than him.”
She looks at me, eyes searching.
“Would you hit me?” she asks, soft.
I let the silence answer.
“No. I’d never.”
She nods, but I can see she doesn’t believe it. Not yet.
The light through the drapes is warm, lazy. The suite is sealed off from the world, insulated by thick glass and thick money. We could stay here forever and no one would know. No one would care.
She shifts, pulling the shirt lower, covering the marks.
“You’re not what I expected,” she says.
“What did you expect?”
“Monster. Sociopath. The usual.”
I grin. “I can be.”
She looks away. “I know.”
We sit like that, the space between us thick with everything we’re not saying. Her hands rest in her lap, palms open. Mine are on my knees, fists relaxed.
She leans forward, hair falling over her eyes.
“I’m not going to run,” she says.
“Good.”
