He looked all around him as he walked quickly back toward the intersection, scanning every rainbow wig, every rainbow t-shirt.“Hi, it’s Abby! Please leave a message at--” He pressed “end.” How could this happen? The last thing he remembered was telling her to head further up Halsted. Maybe she thought I meant the other direction? He headed south on Halsted.------Abby wandered for the better part of an hour, frantic steps slowing to a dejected plod. Hot and thirsty, blood soaking into her rainbow knee-socks, she stopped, unable to take another step. To her left, a tall, gangly woman in a black string bikini walked hand in hand with her girlfriend, her body covered in dozens of rainbow-colored handprints. Large hands, small hands, some sneaking their way out from under the swimsuit. Different hands… different people…. Abby imagined the woman standing naked, arms outstretched, as friends and lovers pressed their painted hands against her flesh. The woman passed by, gave her a wink and a. So I pulled it out of my mouth and flicked a pointy tongue at the head of it, then lathered it fatly up and down and all around. Looking at my lovely husband all the while.He took another picture. He was smiling. I was so happy. We weren’t fighting. Maybe we’d never fight again, if I could just keep doing this.“Baby, keep doing that. I’m going to go upstairs for a minute. Be right back.”I fellated my toe while listening to the noises upstairs. I wanted him back with me so badly, but I stayed planted and did what I was told. Make him proud. Atta girl.Our fights. They were nothing, now. A week ago he’d been screaming at me, throwing shit, punching holes in our bedroom door. He’d called me a do-gooding cunt and nearly belted me and then stormed out. And I swore we were done. Eight years on, and my husband had changed. He’d become selfish and violent and crude, the kind of man I counseled women about at the Crisis Center, the kind of man that women needed to fear and escape. And I swore.
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