The Bitch

After she cleans my lip she puts the balm heavily on her own bruised lips and kisses me. Long, slow, and soft, to put the balm on my split lip.

We creep up on the bed together and she uses the cold of the fan as an excuse to curl up against me like a kitten seeking warmth. She sleeps fitfully, sometimes crying softly, while I hold her.

I don't sleep at all.

The Bitch almost destroyed us twenty years ago. We had been married for ten years when she first showed up. We didn't know how to fight her then. So she held us for six months. We'd already filed paperwork. It was all spilling away.

But the Bitch had to taunt me one last time. She came by the crappy apartment I'd moved to. To mock me, to challenge my manhood.

I know now that she'd been tricked by my wife. Taking that one last desperate chance. The Bitch pushed and pushed until I took up her challenge. I don't know what the Bitch was planning, but it didn't work out. It was brutal, almost inhuman, but by morning, battered and bruised, we'd found each other again.

I don't know where the Bitch comes from. I've seen words. Words that change occasionally with different doctors. They're clinical words that don't seem to hold the vivid reality very well.

"Possible Borderline Personality Disorder"

"Childhood Trauma"

"Stress Triggers"

But I don't really know what caused it. It must be horrific, but my wife won't tell me. Not because she doesn't trust me, but because she's afraid if I know where the Bitch comes from, I'll feel sorry for her. She's afraid I'll show the Bitch mercy.

And she can't risk that.

We can't risk that.

She's tried therapy. Maybe it helps, maybe not. She still does it.

Medication was a nightmare. It works for some people. But it turns out she's one of that small percent with no tolerance at all for even the lowest doses of those medications. I lived with a dead shell of a human who vaguely resembled my wife for over a year. We didn't make love once. I stormed the doctor's office when she forgot her own name for five days in a row.

We'll take our chances with the Bitch. We'll fight her our way. It works.

We watch for her all the time. My wife senses her before I do. She prepares. The pajamas must have been readied - rips made, threads cut, and the clothes carefully stored in a bottom drawer - months before the Bitch arrived or she'd have known.

I change the combination on the gun lock every 4 months. And never tell my wife. If I took the gun away entirely, she would see it as a defeat.

It's gotten longer and longer between visits, it could be another three years before we see her again.

When the clock flicks over to 5 AM, I get up for work, sliding silently out of bed. I tuck an extra blanket around her and look at her face. She's peaceful. Relaxed and innocent.

I head down the hall to get ready. It takes a while, I'm bruised and sore all over; my groin aches in a throbbing rhythm. I look in the mirror. There's that split lip - no hiding that. I have dark circles around my eyes too. Not much I can do with that, either. The coffee will help. The secretary will notice. She did the last two times. But she won't ask. Like I said, she's a damn good secretary. And she'll know that everyone will be leaving a little early Friday. It's been a damn hard week. And the weekend holds a lot of promise.

I finish tying my tie - a full Windsor knot; I'm 50 for God's sake and I'm not going to a club, so no half-knots for me. The tie is a brilliantly colorful Jerry Garcia - to draw attention from the damage to my face. I wear one of my better shirts, one I can wear cufflinks with. The monogrammed onyx cufflinks my wife bought for me two years ago, after the last time we fought the Bitch. She'll be thrilled that I wore them when I get home tonight.

She'll spend the day in her pajamas and a robe. Sipping hot jasmine tea. Looking out the window and enjoying every rustle of wind, every sight of a bird. Maybe there will even be some flurries of snow. She has her life back today and she can celebrate it in small ways.

She'll be clingy and needy for a week or two, and there'll be no lovemaking for that time. At least until the bruised groins heal and some of the harsh electric memories fade a bit. I'll bring her flowers and hold on to her a little tighter at night.

I slip back into the bedroom to look in on her one last time before walking out with coat and keys. I lean over to look at her and she turns her face up for a kiss.

Eyes closed, still asleep.