Chapter 4: Blue Light Above The Sink
Dante did not move when I stepped away from the freezer. The open drawer remained behind me, spilling a low breath of cold across the tile. I kept my hands clasped behind my back because one of them had begun to shake, and because hiding the bruise felt easier when I could not see my own fingers reaching for it.
The deadbolt was still turned.
That fact followed me as I crossed the kitchen. I had not been told to leave, but I had been given a narrow way to do it: finish what could be finished, go upstairs, and return to the work waiting before morning. It was not permission so much as a temporary arrangement neither of us had spoken aloud. Dante stayed by the door, silent and watchful, while I moved toward the sink.
Rain pressed against the window above it. The faint blue light showed the kitchen more clearly than the darkness had. It caught on the edges of the stainless counters, on the wet shine of the floor, and on the copper pots hanging over the island. When I lifted my face toward the glass, my reflection appeared between streaks of rain.
The bruise looked worse there.
In the freezer's dim light, I had felt only heat and swelling. Under the window's blue cast, the mark spread from my left cheek toward my eye in uneven colors, purple at the center and black along the lower edge. The skin was raised enough to change the shape of my face. I touched the uninjured side first, then stopped before my fingers reached the bruise.
I lowered my head and ran water into the sink. The sound filled the space between Dante and me. I wet the dish towel, wrung it out, and folded it into a square. The cold cloth helped for a few seconds. Then my cheek began to throb again, a steady pulse that made the room seem to shift with it.
I tested what I could hide.
My hair could fall over part of the mark, but not the swollen edge beneath my eye. A towel carried over my arm might give me a reason to keep my face turned down. The kitchen's low light would help. Morning light would not. Any ordinary task that required looking up, lifting a tray, or meeting someone across a room would expose me.
I reached for a stack of clean glasses near the sink. The first one was easy. The second slipped against my damp fingers, and I caught it against my palm before it struck the basin. Pain flashed through my cheek when I flinched. I set the glass down and waited for the pulse to settle.
Dante remained at the door.
I could feel his attention without looking at him. He had seen the catch, the pause, the way I kept my face angled away from the window. My story about the steps had not disappeared, but it had become something he could measure against every movement I made.
I dried the glasses one by one. The work took longer than it should have. By the time the last one was placed beside the others, my shoulder had tightened and my eyes had begun to water again. I blamed the rain, the cold, anything that did not require an explanation.
Before leaving the sink, I chose the next task. I would set the breakfast things without carrying the heavier tray. I would keep to the darker side of the kitchen. I would pin my hair forward and keep the dish towel in my hand.
May you like
It was a plan for appearing functional, not for being well.
I turned from the window with the towel pressed lightly to my cheek. Dante's hand was still near the deadbolt. His silence made the plan feel temporary, and his continued presence made it impossible to pretend the morning would accept it.
