I sit down at the small table, watching her through the glass, never taking my eyes off of her. Even when the guard removes my handcuffs, I do not stop looking at her. She is the only thing I see, the only thing that I am aware of. As the guard walks away, I slowly reach over, picking up the telephone from its place on the wall.
I am scared to talk to her. I am scared not to. For awhile I say nothing, twisting the phone cord around in my hand, over each finger. The same way I did when I nervously called her before our first date. Who'd have thought it would ever come to this?
She does not look at me. I want her to, desperately, I want her eyes to meet mine, but at the same time I do not want her to see into me, to see what has happened to me. I continue to watch her, to watch the silent tears falling into her lap. I want nothing more than to hold her, kiss her, tell her how much I love her and how everything will work itself out in time.
I do the next best thing. Softly, I touch the glass dividing us with one finger, whispering gently.
"I love you, Michelle, and I'm sorry."
At long last, she responds. First she puts her finger over mine, so that we are almost touching, so that there is only a quarter of an inch of glass between our two hands. Then, she looks up. Slowly, at first, looking at my orange coveralls, my plain white t-shirt underneath, my neck, my chin, and finally, my face.
She lets out a small, involuntary gasp upon taking in the sight of my face. I am unshaven, but I know that that is not the reason for her surprise. She has seen my stubble before. No, it is the welt on my cheek that has frightened her, or perhaps my swollen right eye, or even the stitches on the left side of my face.
"Tony, your faceā¦"
She pauses, not wanting to upset me, and unsure of how to continue. I, too, do not know what do say. Do I tell her the truth, do I tell her how I have been beaten every night since I first arrived here? Or do I allow her the luxury of sleeping at night?
"What happened?" she asks finally, deciding that whatever it is, she should know. She should help.
Perhaps she is right in deciding this. Perhaps I am overreacting, and should tell her, let her help me. But my instinct, the same instinct that committed treason to save her, wants to shield Michelle from this. I want to protect her. She should not have to deal with what I am forced to handle.
"Too much, Michelle, too damn much."
