When he stood up, the redness in his eyes made me think of the devil covered in lace; I could see something that I knew was no good for me but still somewhat tempting. The tears ran down his face like claw marks on his skin but there was nothing more for me to say. Whatever I needed, he didn't have. Our arguments made us weary and the sight of him walking out was a relief to the exhaustion. When an immovable object and an unstoppable force cross paths, the energy just redistributes itself onto an explosion that you hope you can survive, but neither of us did.
My head was throbbing and wherever he was, the anger and the disappointment was probably moving through his body like poison just the same as it was in mine. I didn't even other to lock the door before I pulled my clothes off piece by piece and dropped them to my feet. I wanted to look at myself, to see if I resembled the monster I felt like. Stretch marks and swollen breasts looked back at me. There were hips and thighs on me that were never there before. And these huge breasts rose from my chest still filled with milk for a child who was no longer hungry for it. It started to dawn on me that it must have been impossible for a man to sleep beside me night after night and not be desired or welcomed. I was the person he was entitled to share that intimacy with and I couldn't bring myself to meet him halfway. Maybe if I wasn't so disgusted with my own body, I could share it again. What he saw as beautiful, I could not even tolerate.
Seconds later, the front door flew open and our eyes locked. He did not seem in the least bit shocked by my naked body, nor did I display any shame upon him seeing it. There was so much regret and disappointment simmering in the short time we stood staring at each other. He rushed toward me and I did not flinch, nor did I question what he was planning to do when he reached me.
He grabbed the back of my neck and kissed me more passionately than I ever remembered him kissing me before. It was violent and magical all at once. I wanted to pull away but I was too apologetic to sabotage the moment of impromptu repentance. He pulled my hair and sucked on my neck, squeezed my breasts and I moaned from the pain. If there was a line between fucking and making love, we were a balancing act. There was love and then there was hate. There was pain and pleasure, familiarity and strangeness. With our bodies tangled, I couldn't recognize either of us. Every stroke was an apology and every kiss was a guilt trip. He was probably searching for whatever would make us whole again as he dug his fingers into my skin, but our love had no pulse. We were a corpse of mediocrity at its finest. Pressed against the wall, covered in my own sweat and tears, he finally came inside of me and walked to the bathroom. The faucet ran for a few seconds and then, the front door slammed once more. This time, I locked it.