She sank to the floor, her back against the couch, unable to talk. Lightly touching her head in many places, seeking out other injuries, making sure she hadn’t missed anything. She needed her space. He sat on the floor too. Nearby, not speaking. Patiently waiting for her to find the courage to continue. Minutes passed before she found her voice. She wanted to be careful to explain each moment. Henry, listening with a glassy-eyed intensity, took a drink from the bottle.

“He looked different …”

She stopped. Another tissue. Another nose blow.

“I thought he was going to say, ‘I’ve thought about it, I’m in! Sorry it took so long.’ But he was staring at the floor, and when he looked up he called me a bitch and hit me across the face.” She turned her cheek so he could see it better. “Is there a handprint?”

He moved closer, bobbing slightly, the whiskey smell prominent. Taking a tissue, this time she let him gently press it against her temple.

“No handprint. Then what happened?”

“He went to hit me again, and I crashed into the wall. It was terrible; my mouth … my mouth was screaming …”

He hadn’t blinked in what felt like ages.

“This is all my fault. You were right. I should’ve let it go …”

He took another swig straight from the bottle. “That motherfucker. Motherfucker. Motherfucker, motherfucker, motherfucker.”

“So I ran.” The tears were streaming down her cheeks. “I barely got out the door. I pushed him and ran. Faster than I’ve run in my life. I didn’t look back. Got in the car. Turned the engine on. Came straight home.” She was shivering.

His face twitched. He was rubbing his hands like he was trying to make fire. Then let out a yell that filled the room.

“I’m calling the police,” he said.

“No, we can’t. I thought about it. No. Please. The police would side with him. He could say I’d been trespassing on his property and that he told me plenty of times to stay away. And if this were to become a scandal, our company would be finished before we even started. You know the kind of big-money clients we’re after don’t want to be associated with this kind of drama.”

“Then I’m going over,” Henry said. “He’s not getting away with this.”

He tried to stand up but lost his balance and fell back to the floor. It took him a few seconds to finally get up. This was how it usually was for him at this time of night. Why sometimes he slept in the kitchen. Once he was on his feet, he grabbed his car keys.

“No, Henry,” she said. “You can’t drive. The last thing I need is for you to kill yourself in a car crash.”

“Then fuck it, I’ll walk.”