Awakening

She watched him from across the small round table. He picked up his coffee, sipped and set down the ceramic mug against it's saucer. She
watched him do this repeatedly in silence. The coffee dripped slightly from the corner of his mouth, wetting his course beard. His demanding
eyes picked over the food on his plate. She could almost find him amusing, if it weren't for the fact that she hated him. Even when he didn't speak an utterance she hated him. Maybe it was what he had become for which she held so much contempt. She watched still, intrigued at the fact that the pain within her was so animated and telling, yet he wouldn't notice.

Perhaps it was her face that waned the evidence of severe malaise and agony. She carried it long and plain. She was truly beautiful once. Her spirit was so lively, it illuminated her very being and any one around to bear witness. Her eyes gleamed pools of hazel and soft brown hues. Her smile had the habit of enslaving a poor soul at the mercy of her curiosity. The victims would become loyal subjects, unconsciously feigning for the next emerging smile or, hint of it. She knew of her enthralling influence,...and so did he. He wanted it ultimately for himself. He needed the dominion of every smile, every glance, every tear, and any eminence of attention or emotion. It was a cannibalism of the worst kind.

Unknowingly at first, she let him drain and exhaust her under his fallacy of love, and slowly, becoming more explicit she found it truly was not love. Her pools of hazel and soft browns had become dry and barren depths.

"Randy!" he grunted, slamming his fist on the table.

The dishes noisily rattled and clashed against the table and one another. She knew she would have to answer to him just as the very dishes did.

"Yes?" she answered. She lifted her eyes to meet his and ran her fingers over her head, collecting runaway strands. She wanted him to see her.

"How many times this week have you served my dinner cold? I warned you twice this same week, that when I get home, I expect my food hot. Not cold, not f**king warm, but HOT!"

"If you would've called, I would've known you would be coming home late." she said, hesitant at first. She wouldn't yield this time. She couldn't blindly accept his blame and become his excuse for life not being in his control.

"I asked you Mark, you know i asked you if you
wanted me to reheat it,...didn't I?" she asked him solemnly, now with a quiet confidence confirming each word.

She stared the whole time barely blinking, her eyes demanding that he agree. He couldn't build a worthy claim against her, so he abandoned the argument in his fashionable manner. He arose, the very force of it pushing his chair to the floor.

"Next time I better have my dinner hot!..." he shouted to her, arms bent and leaning on the table.

He squinted his eyes. His lips curled around each word, bearing his teeth like a mad dog barking its omen. His fierce glance shifted from her to his half filled coffee mug and saucer. He firmly grasped its handle. He picked up the mug and swung its dark heated liquid at her seemingly frail frame.

"...Like my coffee".

She wasn't surprised. She watched every move and simply flinched at the warming shock of coffee meeting her skin. She almost found it comforting. It was the warmest contact he had given her in years.