Chapter 8: The Bruise Beneath The Towel
By the time the rain thinned to a steady whisper, the kitchen had begun to look usable again. That was the danger of it. The copper pots had stopped ticking against one another. The blue light above the sink had faded into the gray before morning. Stainless steel reflected clean counters, stacked plates, and my thin figure moving from one task to the next as if nothing had happened.
I kept the dish towel folded over my left cheek.
It was dry at first, then damp from the heat of my skin. I told myself the cloth made me look busy, that anyone seeing me would assume I had a reason to hold it there. I carried a tray toward the adjacent household work area with my right hand and kept the other pressed flat against the towel. The bruise throbbed each time my bare foot met the tile.
At the counter, I set down the tray and reached for a stack of glasses. The first one slipped. I caught it against my palm, but the movement pulled hard across my cheek and jaw. Pain flashed bright enough to blur the room.
I froze until the blur passed.
The glasses stayed in my hand. The work did not.
I arranged them again, slower, leaving a space where the missing one should have been. Then I lifted the tray. Its weight shifted toward my injured side. My shoulder gave a small, involuntary jerk, and one glass knocked against another with a sharp click.
Dante stood in the kitchen doorway.
He had not announced himself. He wore the same dark trousers and collarless shirt, sleeves pushed up, bare feet planted on the cold floor. His eyes went first to the towel, then to the tray, then to the hand I kept hidden beneath the cloth.
He did not come closer.
That distance gave me room to choose, but it did not feel like freedom. Behind him, the door stood closed. The deadbolt was no longer visible from where I was, though I remembered the sound of it sliding home.
I carried the tray past him.
The hallway beyond the kitchen was dim, lined with oil paintings whose dark surfaces held the weak morning light. I made it three steps before the left side of my vision pulsed. The tray tilted. I caught its edge against my hip, and a glass rolled toward the floor.
Dante moved then.
He reached the tray before it fell, taking its weight without touching me. The towel slipped from my cheek.
Cold air found the bruise. I raised my hand too late. His gaze settled on the swollen purple-black mark, and the quiet between us tightened around it.
I turned away and took the tray back.
The effort made my cheek pulse harder. A thin warmth gathered beneath the skin, and when I pressed the towel against it again, a dark spot appeared in the fabric. Not much. Enough.
I returned to the kitchen and placed the tray on the counter. The work surface seemed farther away than it had a moment earlier. I opened the freezer drawer and reached for ice, but my fingers shook before they touched it. The cold rolled over my wrist. I wrapped one piece in the towel instead, pressing the bundle against my face.
It was not treatment. It was concealment.
Dante remained by the doorway, watching the cloth darken and the tray sit unfinished between us. He did not take the towel away. He did not force my hand down. His stillness made the choice mine.
I picked up the tray again.
At once, my knees weakened. I gripped the counter with my right hand and lowered the tray before it could fall. The ice slid inside the towel and struck the steel with a wet, hollow sound.
May you like
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Then I pushed the tray beneath the counter, out of sight, and folded the stained towel inward. I chose privacy over the remaining work. The choice bought me only a few minutes, but it left the household's morning service incomplete—and left Dante with evidence I could no longer cover cleanly.
