HOME | DD

Description
Where were you last night? The inevitable question sounds itself in my mind, looking at you today, at your state. You hear the question flash across my dark eyes, rimmed red with a night’s restless sleep. I could have no longer hoped that you were reasonably delayed. You hear the question, reply with your silent, dead stare: Out. I sigh, disgusted by the exchange, by your answer. Rattling of the tea kettle on the stove interrupts the conversation. I grab it by the handle with a swift, practiced motion—the familiar, deft snatch, tearing water. Unnecessarily gesturing to the delicate tea cups in the cupboard, I inquire whether you want the hot water as drink or as remedy. A swift, practiced, unnecessary casting of your eyes downwards: the latter, of course. The bruises will probably leave a permanent mark this time nonetheless; already your face grows a spider-like pattern of scars, night after excruciatingly free night tattooing onto your reflection. You gaze into the mirror above the table absentmindedly, pressing a hot cloth upon the open wound on your upper left arm. I sip my tea, staring intently into the green dregs in a routine effort to avoid looking at you, catching glimpses of those guilty eyes, trying to hear only the hissing of hot water over the stifled gasps emanating from across the kitchen. Yet the tea fails to drown my surprise as you throw down the cloth on the table with a sudden, erratic motion; table settings clatter as the surface quakes in astonishment. I dare to look up from my cup, to watch you storm out with wounds untreated, glare shouting Damn it, damn you, I have nothing to be ashamed of, leave me be. For once, I actually wonder: Where were you, to deserve, to revel, in this?

Description
Where were you last night? The inevitable question sounds itself in my mind, looking at you today, at your state. You hear the question flash across my dark eyes, rimmed red with a night’s restless sleep. I could have no longer hoped that you were reasonably delayed. You hear the question, reply with your silent, dead stare: Out. I sigh, disgusted by the exchange, by your answer. Rattling of the tea kettle on the stove interrupts the conversation. I grab it by the handle with a swift, practiced motion—the familiar, deft snatch, tearing water. Unnecessarily gesturing to the delicate tea cups in the cupboard, I inquire whether you want the hot water as drink or as remedy. A swift, practiced, unnecessary casting of your eyes downwards: the latter, of course. The bruises will probably leave a permanent mark this time nonetheless; already your face grows a spider-like pattern of scars, night after excruciatingly free night tattooing onto your reflection. You gaze into the mirror above the table absentmindedly, pressing a hot cloth upon the open wound on your upper left arm. I sip my tea, staring intently into the green dregs in a routine effort to avoid looking at you, catching glimpses of those guilty eyes, trying to hear only the hissing of hot water over the stifled gasps emanating from across the kitchen. Yet the tea fails to drown my surprise as you throw down the cloth on the table with a sudden, erratic motion; table settings clatter as the surface quakes in astonishment. I dare to look up from my cup, to watch you storm out with wounds untreated, glare shouting Damn it, damn you, I have nothing to be ashamed of, leave me be. For once, I actually wonder: Where were you, to deserve, to revel, in this?