Fist Fall

The beads of sweat dripped into his eyes, the man oblivious to the falling spheres.  An ashy cigarette hung from tapered fingers down to an ash grey carpet.

His eyes glazed, not drugged this time but shined by unwanted tears.  She had kissed his damp forehead on her way out. He hadn’t tried to catch her eye.

The fist had acted alone, angry and fast.  Her blue-bruised face flinched away from the second outstretched hand.  He hadn’t attempted the begging, pathetic ritual of forgiveness this time, he knew it was too late, too old, too trite.  Next time he’d sheath that fist.  Next time he wouldn’t act.  Next time….

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