Battered Wife

2

The man with light brown eyes knocked on the window again.

His knock interrupted my occupation with his eyes and I could suddenly see how awful I looked in the poor reflection of my face supplied by the car's window.

My mascara was running and my eyes were puffy as hell.

Unfortunately, I had to speak to a man with fascinating eyes in my worst state.

"Are you okay?" he asked as I rolled down my car window.

His accent made me look directly at him even though I'd already promised not to lock gazes with him before. His accent was definitely not Nigerian. I had a ear for accents and his was American.

My eyes were fixed on his face that were somewhat familiar when he asked again, "Are you okay?"

My curiosity about his accent got the best of me and I blurted out the wrong answer. "Are you American?"

"Yes. No. I'm Nigerian too. Anyway, are you okay?" he asked again. "Do you need something? Do you need some help?"

"Did you grow up in Nigeria?" Something about him brought out the curiosity in me, which I'd always hidden because my mother had warned from a very young age to keep my questions to myself.

"No but I've been living in Nigeria for more than five years now." His answer was defensive.

"Well, it's obvious. Usually, Nigerians see someone crying and mind their business. You knocking the window like this instead of pretending you didn't see anything...is definitely not typical Nigerian behavior." I knew I sounded rude, snappy even, but he made me feel weird.

He raised his hand in the air immediately. "Well, I'm sorry. I thought you needed help is all. I'll just leave you alone."

He was obviously annoyed at my attitude as he turned to walk away.

"Wait..." I stopped him, unable to stop myself.

Although I was in a terrible mood, I didn't want to leave with a bad impression of me for whatever reason.

He turned to stare at me without moving a single step back to my car with his hands in his pocket. His face was guarded with a subtle "What now?" demeanor.

Remembering how rudely I'd spoken to him made me embarrassed. It also made me realize how similar I was becoming to my husband and his fellow high society people and their bitterness and rudeness to everyone.

"I'm sorry. I just felt ashamed so I lashed out at you." I said.

He moved closer to the car. "It's fine. Listen, you're right. I shoulda just minded my own business and left you alone. I just thought maybe you were hurt, because you were holding your abdomen."

I couldn't help smiling at him or at least trying to. "Thank you. My hurt isn't physical."

He nodded and stretched out a hand with a card. "Well, if you need any help, you can just give me a call. If anyone is threatening you or hurting you, I can help."

"Why are you doing this?" I asked.

"Pardon?" he asked, staring at me with a bewildered look.

"Why are you giving a woman you don't know a card and offering to help her even if you don't know her and this is your first meeting with her?"

"Because I can help her? Because we're colleagues and she works in the same company as me?" At this point, he was glaring at me.

I nodded and took his card before he retracted it. "I'm sorry. Thank you for this. This...is the first time a complete stranger will see me in such a vulnerable state and as you can see, that makes me very confrontational and removes my filter."

He stared at me intensely for a minute before nodding. "It's fine. I'll leave now."

Before I could say anything, he walked away.

I sighed as I stared at his departing back because I knew without a doubt that I had offended him with my rudeness and questions.