mistaken identity
On playgrounds and in public schools I had been in fist fights with other boys. On more than one occasion I've found myself in a bar fight. I know what it's like to have my bare fist connect with the face of another man; to feel the skin of the face stretch beneath my knuckles and the bones crunch in my hands. But I had never punched a woman in the face before.
Her head snapped backwards and the force of the blow sent her body stumbling. Her right hand went immediately to her face in reaction to the pain. Her left arm was flailing in an attempt to regain her balance, or just find something to grab hold. It was like watching one of those nature films of a baby horse trying to stand for the first time, but with the projector running backwards. Her knees buckled and she crumpled into a seated position on the floor, like someone releasing the strings of a marionette. Bright red blood trickled from her nose onto her fattening lip. Her eyes were closed, her lashes growing wet with the tears of physical pain, like water in the teeth of a comb. When you punch a man, he looks back at you with anger. When she opened her eyes, the first thing I saw was surprise. Then her surprise literally melted away. The hard, wide roundness of her eyes shrunk and became softer as they continued to fill with the tears of a hurt heart. A single stream began to flow from the corner. It trickled down her face, tracing the edge of her nose. It met the blood there and diluted its color. With one of her delicate hands she wiped at her lip. She winced in pain then moved the hand from her face, looking at the blood on her fingers. Then she looked at me for some sort of explanation.
The room was full of excuses: our volatile 4 month relationship, her disclosure that she was fucking some co-worker, the argument which followed, the two empty vodka bottles on the coffee table. None of them were a good reason, though. There was nothing I could say or do to explain what had just happened. Nothing could justify this brutality. My right hand throbbed with pain sending waves of nausea into my gut with each pulsation. The skin at my neck grew hot, rising up into my ears. She rose to her feet. She looked down, pretending to straighten her clothes so she wouldn't have to look at me. She chuckled. Not earnestly, but with remorse.
"I guess I had that coming," she said, mostly to herself.
She sniffed then looked up again, but not at me. She glanced around the room like she was looking for something, then turned and walked into the bathroom, switching on the light. Placing both hands on the edge of the sink, she leaned over it, looking into the mirror. She turned on the faucet and carefully cleaned the blood from her face. I stood there watching her from a distance. Her body was dark in the backlight, almost like a silhouette, framed in the doorway of the bathroom. I had a view of her side as she leaned over the sink. Her legs were straight and long, then her form curved sharply at the waist, her back arched and rising to meet her head which was eye level with the mirror. For a split second I grew wistful at the scene, then my hand throbbed again. She snapped off the light and walked out of the bathroom.
She gathered her purse and coat from the couch. She cleared her throat as she pulled the sleeves over her arms as if she might say something, but she remained silent. She tossed her head slightly to keep her hair from getting tucked into the collar as she put it on. She crossed the room toward me as she headed for the front door to leave. As she passed by me I began, "I. . ."
She raised her hand to my mouth and placed the first three fingers to my lips to stop me from speaking. She looked into my eyes intently and said, "I know."
She smiled sadly at me. It wasn't a simple look of pity, but one of grave concern. I'll never know if it was directed at me or for herself.
"I didn't think you were that sort of man, either," she said and left.
Her head snapped backwards and the force of the blow sent her body stumbling. Her right hand went immediately to her face in reaction to the pain. Her left arm was flailing in an attempt to regain her balance, or just find something to grab hold. It was like watching one of those nature films of a baby horse trying to stand for the first time, but with the projector running backwards. Her knees buckled and she crumpled into a seated position on the floor, like someone releasing the strings of a marionette. Bright red blood trickled from her nose onto her fattening lip. Her eyes were closed, her lashes growing wet with the tears of physical pain, like water in the teeth of a comb. When you punch a man, he looks back at you with anger. When she opened her eyes, the first thing I saw was surprise. Then her surprise literally melted away. The hard, wide roundness of her eyes shrunk and became softer as they continued to fill with the tears of a hurt heart. A single stream began to flow from the corner. It trickled down her face, tracing the edge of her nose. It met the blood there and diluted its color. With one of her delicate hands she wiped at her lip. She winced in pain then moved the hand from her face, looking at the blood on her fingers. Then she looked at me for some sort of explanation.
The room was full of excuses: our volatile 4 month relationship, her disclosure that she was fucking some co-worker, the argument which followed, the two empty vodka bottles on the coffee table. None of them were a good reason, though. There was nothing I could say or do to explain what had just happened. Nothing could justify this brutality. My right hand throbbed with pain sending waves of nausea into my gut with each pulsation. The skin at my neck grew hot, rising up into my ears. She rose to her feet. She looked down, pretending to straighten her clothes so she wouldn't have to look at me. She chuckled. Not earnestly, but with remorse.
"I guess I had that coming," she said, mostly to herself.
She sniffed then looked up again, but not at me. She glanced around the room like she was looking for something, then turned and walked into the bathroom, switching on the light. Placing both hands on the edge of the sink, she leaned over it, looking into the mirror. She turned on the faucet and carefully cleaned the blood from her face. I stood there watching her from a distance. Her body was dark in the backlight, almost like a silhouette, framed in the doorway of the bathroom. I had a view of her side as she leaned over the sink. Her legs were straight and long, then her form curved sharply at the waist, her back arched and rising to meet her head which was eye level with the mirror. For a split second I grew wistful at the scene, then my hand throbbed again. She snapped off the light and walked out of the bathroom.
She gathered her purse and coat from the couch. She cleared her throat as she pulled the sleeves over her arms as if she might say something, but she remained silent. She tossed her head slightly to keep her hair from getting tucked into the collar as she put it on. She crossed the room toward me as she headed for the front door to leave. As she passed by me I began, "I. . ."
She raised her hand to my mouth and placed the first three fingers to my lips to stop me from speaking. She looked into my eyes intently and said, "I know."
She smiled sadly at me. It wasn't a simple look of pity, but one of grave concern. I'll never know if it was directed at me or for herself.
"I didn't think you were that sort of man, either," she said and left.