I am made of glass and icy tears flow in my veins where blood should be.
He looks right through me at the new curtains and doesn’t see the hours of picking out the fabric, measuring and cutting, pinning and hemming. He doesn’t see me balanced on the stepladder with a yardstick and a pencil, measuring distances and checking levels. He doesn’t consider for a moment that I was trying to please him.
“Those curtains are butt-ugly,” he snarls and my heart sinks into my stomach and burns in its acid.
The tears that are my blood pop to the surface like condensation. In the swirl of emotions in my head I pick out a few familiar ones: shame, fear, sorrow, anger. The first three are the currency he expects to be paid in; the last one is dangerous, unexpected. If I let the anger leak out it will only feed the violence brewing in his fists.
“And where’s my dinner?”
Of course the dinner isn’t ready yet; I spent all afternoon on the curtains. He should understand this but he chooses not. Nothing matters now but the release of his blood red rage. And I am made of glass.