ABSTRACT
Will he slash my face when he’s through? All he asks for is money. Not a demand. A casual request as if I’m “his woman,” and he’s going to run an errand. Same man who has walked through the walls of my apartment to rape me, waits, almost patiently, while I fumble through two purses for my wallet and he lets me take the bills out. Doesn’t count the seventy dollars I hand over or mention my credit cards. He leaves the room, speaking over his shoulder, “Stay there, I’ll be back,” as if he were my honey getting up to fix us drinks or snacks or turn our favorite music on, as if every cell in my body wasn’t trying to eject him from my life.
