Worthy Witness

He sat in his car at a rest stop near their apartment and saw the van go pass.  He was sure it was her father’s.  She had been silent that morning as she poured their coffee.  Her thin arms were black and blue where he had grabbed her as she tried to run to the children.  Her face had a welt of red like a hand had slapped it again and again.  She moved as though afraid of her shadow, her hand shaking as she lifted the cup to her lips.

That morning, he hid behind the newspaper and was grateful when his son started to cry and she left the room.  All that he remembered about last night was that she wasn’t asleep when he walked through the door.  He hated her when she did that.  He was tired and didn’t want to talk.  She whined and cried.  He hated her cries; they made him unsettled.  She antagonized him with accusations and then walked away; that made him very angry.  She deserved to be hit.  “Bitch.”