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‘Does it hurt?’
‘A bit.’ He shrugged and added, ‘I’ll survive.’
She stepped away from the door, her horrified eyes tracing and retracing the purple, blue and black pattern on his brow, across his nose and around his left eye, still partially closed by swelling.
He said, ‘Can I come in?’
‘Aye. Of course. Come in.’ Millie walked back into the room as if making space for him.
George looked around. ‘Everyone gone for the weekend?’
‘They have.’
‘But you’re still here.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Is it all right?’
‘Is what all right?’ Millie asked defensively, walking to the other side of the breakfast bar and picking up a cloth with which she urgently removed an invisible mark.
‘Me, you. Us.’ George let the apartment door swing closed behind him but didn’t move further into the room. He felt completely helpless. Something was still wrong. He’d sensed a shift in their relationship last night and whatever it was had not changed.
‘You want a drink? Coffee, tea?’ she asked, not answering his question.
‘No thanks.’
‘I’m going to have something.’ She moved to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of fruit juice. ‘Sure?’ she asked, holding the drink up in invitation.
‘Yes, I’m sure.’ George nodded and watched Millie, his Millie, as she poured a drink for herself with undue concentration. This was all wrong. It wasn’t his Millie. She, she… his thoughts stalled. Suddenly, his head hurt like the most horrendous hangover. Was it physical? The result of the beating. Or could it be the horror of Millie not liking him anymore? Feeling giddy, he moved towards the door. ‘I should go.’
He thought he heard her say no as he reached for the door handle. It was cold in his hand. His hand was clammy and weak, no strength, not even enough to turn the nob. His head dropped forward, hitting the white surface of the door. He thought he heard the thud. He felt an increase in pain, slicing through his skull as he slid in slow motion to the floor, out of control.
