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Cassie
The next morning, when I walked into the living room, Luke was standing.
His hair was plastered with sweat, his sweatpants were falling off his ass, but he was up, using the back of the couch for support, shuffling back and forth, muttering to himself like Macbeth’s wife.
I didn’t say anything at first.
That’s how Luke and I preferred it, right? We didn’t acknowledge each other. At least that’s how he’d preferred it until last night.
It wasn’t like I was doing any of this out of the pure goodness of my heart. I was still under his health insurance, I would still get half of his severance, so it was best we kept it to practical exchanges. Me handing him damp, soapy towels through the bathroom door so he could clean himself. Him averting his gaze while I got out of the shower. It was all part of the job.
But sometimes his pain was so clear I could feel it in my own bones. At least once a day I felt it, felt him hurting so hard that it extended across the room. When he’d reach to adjust his pillow. When he’d bend to pick something up off the floor. When he was still waking up from a nightmare with a choked scream.
So now, seeing him standing like that, I couldn’t help it, I started clapping.
