Impulsively I reached up to scratch my scalp.  She cringed, head hiding beneath a bent arm with her eyes sneeking a hesitant and pleading glimpse at me.

The tears rolled in her eyes like a flame was beneath them.  Their salty taste told of her bitterness.  She'd let them fall into the cut under her eye.  As she winced, it reminded her of her failure to cry out.

Her nights were spent in the corner of her bedroom with her hands shielding her head.  She had grown accustomed.  She frequently worked late to minimize her time in the ring, but she was always careful to make it home before the bell had sounded.

She often wondered, If no man could put this marriage asunder, where was God?  Would he be found in a revolver or in that door that enters no where and exits no place?