by Bob Thurber
We were chatting about the divorce, how things would be after. I forget what I said. But she slapped me. Right there in front of the kid.
I could take a slap in those days. It didn't faze me. I didn't do more than blink.
After a long silence she raised her arm like she was winding up for a second shot, then brought her hand to her mouth. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
"Hurt your hand?"
She nodded, trembling all over.
"Let me see."
"It's all right," she said.
"Let me see it."
She shook her head no, then extended the hand, limp, listless.
I examined it, rubbed my thumb across her knuckles, then turned it over and looked at her palm.
"Seems all right. Can you move your fingers?"
She flexed, then nodded. Her eyes looked raw and wet.
"I'll never forgive you," she said.
"I know."
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