Punched in the Gut
We argued about the garlic in the guacamole. He stormed outside. I stood at the second-floor bathroom mirror; my shaking hand focused on my mascara. I heard the front door open. His is footsteps coming up the stairs. He opened the door, punched me in the stomach, and spoke calmly.
“Now you can tell your friends I abused you.”
I was young but I was strong, confident, and independent. On the outside. In my home, I justified the purchase of a two-dollar tube of lipstick. I defended why I wanted to see a movie with a girlfriend. I stayed with a man who threw the bowl of Ocean Garden Spaghetti across the kitchen, cracked the windshield with his bare fist, and smashed a vase of flowers from our garden against the mantle. Meanwhile, I set the table, kept driving, and wept.
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