"Come here," his voice is gentle again.
She gives in, placing her small hand in his. Lifting the cloth, he sees her blood spill out from her palm. He inhales sharply through his teeth and presses the rag back down. They sit there like that for abo...
Her eyes still closed, Sandra stumbles forward a bit when she feels an emptiness in the space in front of her that had seconds before been filled by him. Her hand flies up against her mouth, shock setting in.
"I'm sorry." He yanks on his short strands of hair before throwing his hands down to his sides again. "I'm sorry. That was out of line."
"No it wasn't...you didn't do anything wrong."
He pushes his lips together in a thin, straight line. "I'll see myself ou—"
"Stay!" She grips his arm before he can turn toward the door, trying to hide her desperation. "Please?"
She can see her reflection in his eyes as he pauses, torn between what he should and shouldn't do. He falters; she presses on, holding up the video. "Watch it with me?"
He runs his long fingers across the teeth of his motorcycle key, back and forth and back and forth, his eyes closed, willing himself to feel the scratch of the jagged metal or see the flashes of light behind closed lids, anything to keep her from changing his mind.
He needed to leave. If there was to be any chance of preserving their working relationship, their friendship, he needed to leave.
"C'mon, you got a hot date or something?" she asks with nervous laughter, breaking his stillness. He rolls his eyes but she senses a crack, reaching for his hand then leading him backwards into the living room. "Watch it with me."
The couch feels harder than usual. She sits bolt upright, both hands on her knees, eyes straight ahead.
He slinks into the corner, legs spread, leaning slightly away. His gaze is level, direct and seems to bore into her.
Focus on the movie. The movie. The movie, she repeats to herself, choked by waves of shame and uncertainty.
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Phillip: Oh, I tell you. Women are not the sensitive sex. That's one of the grand delusions of literature. Men are the true romanticists.
"Sandy, I think we need to talk about this."
Unflinching, she responds, "No. No we don't, it's fine."
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