Chapter 1: Don't Touch Me Anymore
I was already at the rug's edge when he said it, and the light from the window made a hard white square on the floor between us. My white dress caught on nothing, but I felt it anyway — the side slit pulling when I stepped forward, the chain of my bag biting into my right shoulder where I'd hitched it high to keep my hands free. He stood six feet behind me near the couch, his blue shirt sleeves pushed to his elbows, one palm open toward my back like he could call me back with that gesture alone.
The contradiction was right there in the bright living room. Everything looked calm — the flag hung vertical and still on the wall to the right, the lamp shade glowed even though it was daytime, the framed artwork straight above the sofa — and at the same time my chest was locked tight and my jaw hurt from holding it closed. He was at his peak, pleading and sure he was right, and I was at mine, ready to leave and not ready to be touched again.
My name is Lena and I was thirty-four that afternoon in our apartment.
It was just past two. Daylight came flat and even through the two front windows and laid across the rug and the wood around it without any shadows to hide in. I'd spent twenty minutes choosing that dress because I wanted to feel like myself again — white strapless, small blue flowers, the little tie at the side — and the silver pendant I'd put on after. I'd picked up my white shoulder bag, gold chain strap, and settled it on my right shoulder. That was the moment he came in from the kitchen doorway and saw me. He didn't say I looked nice. He looked at the door behind me, then at me.
I turned for the door and took three steps toward the camera, toward the hallway that led out. My sandals made no sound on the rug. I reached for the purse strap with my left hand without thinking, pulling it closer, knuckles white around the chain. He moved half a step closer but didn't close the distance. I could hear him breathing. I could hear my own breath catching before I spoke, that small pause that always happens right before I say something I mean.
"Don't touch me anymore."
I didn't yell it. I said it low and I kept walking. The words landed in the bright room and stayed there. He exhaled sharp through his nose.
"If you don't want me, then who are you trying to look good for?"
He said it like a question that already knew its answer, like he was offering me a trap and calling it concern. His mouth stayed open a second after, waiting. I stopped with my hand hovering near the strap, and the annoyance I'd been holding back tightened my brow, pulled at the corner of my eyes. The flag behind him didn't move.
I thought for a second he would take it back. He didn't. That was the lie in it — that my dress had anything to do with him, that looking good had to be for someone else. I felt the doubt flicker anyway, quick and stupid, asking if I'd done something wrong by wanting to feel pretty on a plain Tuesday. Then I felt it go quiet again.
"Stop asking."
May you like
My voice cracked on the second word and I let it. I didn't look at the flag or the lamp or the pictures. I looked at the door. It was only eight feet away, white, with the brushed brass handle I'd turned a thousand times. I took the last steps and put my hand on it. The metal was cool. My bag hung heavy on my shoulder, chain pressing into skin. Behind me he didn't move, but I felt his stare on the back of my neck, on the bare skin above my dress, fixed and listening now, lips closed.
The silence after stretched. The apartment was too quiet. Then, from the other side of the door, a knuckle rapped twice — short, light — and at the exact same second my phone buzzed against my hip inside the bag, vibrating against the chain strap. I didn't turn the handle. I didn't answer. My hand stayed there, fingers tightened around brass, while his eyes stayed on me from six feet back, waiting to see which interruption I would choose first.
