Touch
He had hit her. It hadn't been her fault. As his hand lashed out, that mitigating fact opened his clenched fist, delivering a hard, stinging slap instead of a bruising punch. But it wasn't about fault, it was about eliminating the source. It was about pushing away what caused him pain.
His knowledge of that didn't change anything. It didn't change the shock and hurt on her face and it didn't change the unmistakable look that took their place. In those fleeting seconds between, he was both devastated and elated. She would leave and never come back. It was what he needed, not what he wanted.
She swore, calling him a bastard, as she touched the hot, red indictment on her cheek. As her hand caressing the ghost of his he watched it deepen and clarify, longing for it to be real so he could feel her touch one last time.
Her concern for him evaporated and she used his legs to push up from the kneeling position in front of him. He watched her slowly rise, fighting the urge to shove her hands away, gritting his teeth against the increasing pain and pressure. He read her look, a glare that dared him to strike her again, so he refrained. Not out of the fear of repercussions but because she expected it, wanted it. Wanted him to strike her again so that she could take charge, strike back instead of being surprised and vulnerable.
He had never hit a woman before, one of the manifestations of his father's insane moral compass that had taken root. But it had worked. It had been more effective than anything else he could have done. That didn't make it right
Eventually he would have found a way. Not that he really cared about her feelings but everyone had their breaking point. Everyone had a line they would not cross. He had not found hers. She tolerated his sarcasm and insults. Sometimes giving as good as she got, other times focusing on her work to block him out.
As their relationship grew, his emotion and logic fled to opposite ends of the spectrum. This would not, could not, end well but he wanted it to go on forever. It had not been his intent to end it that night. Lack of concentration, a misplaced hand, sharp fingernails all combined to presented the opportunity. It was done, in the past, time to move on. But he couldn't.
He watched her gather her things from the coffee table, the chair, the ottoman. Reaching down he quickly grabbed the waistband and pulled up his pants as she muttered obscenities. She concentrated on the task at hand, ignoring his movements. She did not look at him and he didn't want her to. But he couldn't stop himself from watching her out of the corner of his eye. He had hit her and although she had been a gentle lover he could not be sure she would remain that way.
He didn't know her any better than anyone else he encountered in a day. They had never really talked. It was either work or sex with an occasional smattering of small talk. Both of them had been comfortable with that arrangement. He didn't know when it had turned into more for him, or for that matter, her. But it had.
She stalked around the couch and over to the piano. Grabbing her sweater, she faltered and he heard her choke back a sob. Oh Christ! Here it comes. His leg was still throbbing but he wasn't going to stick around for this. Reaching across the end table he picked up his cane. He could see her shoulders trembling as she tried to hold it in.
Taking the long way around he limped towards the hall, pausing by the desk. Picking up his wallet he opened it and took out six hundred dollars. Tossing the empty wallet back on the desk he turned towards her, holding up the bills.
"Gotta pee. Let yourself out."
She spun around, cheeks damp with tears.
"Do you think I'm a whore?" He shrugged.
"Be a slut, do it for free, I don't care," he replied, setting the money on the desk before heading down the hall to the bathroom.
They had first met in a professional capacity. It had not been his choice. Part of him could not believe his luck, the other screamed at him to run. He was sarcastic and sullen, she was all work, professional and intense.
Each subsequent encounter drew them closer. Neither of them knowing what was to come. He became more and more relaxed in her company. She never lost her intensity but somehow let a sense of fun peek through.
For months they only allowed it to proceed on a professional level. He wasn't ready, the breakup, five years past, still too fresh in his mind. He didn't know what her reasons had been.
After he had called it off with Stacy for the second time he cut himself off. She never gave up. She allowed him his space, understanding he needed that and time to work it all out. But even through this she remained with him on a professional level. Maybe that was the attraction. Above all else she remained professional. Never letting her personal feelings get in the way of doing her job. Maybe that's why this slip was the end. She had stepped out of that professionalism and destroyed what had made this all work.
Several months and she finally hinted at taking it further. Maybe, he couldn't tell. Had she really or was it his own desire talking? Even in hindsight he could not tell. But the uncertainty was a part of the attraction too.
The transition was so smooth he could not recall a defining moment. That moment in any relationship where you know it had moved to the next level. There had been the advances, the touching, the eventual sex but when had he moved to trusting and caring? Submitting to things he had never dreamed he would, trusting when he had not thought it possible. On the verge of contentment. Why couldn't he have it?
He heard her stuffing her things into her bag by the couch. The soft squeak of her shoes on the hardwood as she strode towards the door, leaving the money on the table. The wave broke over him and his knees almost buckled.
"Ingrid," he said softly as he turned in time to see the last of the table slip through the closing door.