Stubborn Beauty

"You know you hit me in your sleep last night."

"You probably deserved it," he says jokingly. Then: "Did it hurt?"

"Not really," she replies. "I was more shocked than anything. I tried to wake you up, but you were speaking in some weird language. Sounded like Hebrew."

"Do me a favor. If I do it again, wake me up and don't let me fall back asleep unless you're sure I'm following you. OK?"

The woman bites her lip and nods. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she leans over and reaches for a pack of cigarettes sitting on a night table, opens it, extracts a thin white-filter cigarette and a green Bic lighter, and lights her smoke prosaically. The man, also sitting cross-legged, only on the floor, quickly gets to his feet and starts toward the bathroom. "Taking a shower," he mumbles.

When he returns a short while later -- stark naked and leaving damp footprints on the apartment's faux-wood linoleum floor -- the woman addresses him.

"It's not the first time you've done that."

"Done what?" he says, putting the cap back on a deodorant stick.

"Hit me. In your sleep."

"Really?" He seems genuinely curious.

"Well, sorta. Remember when I stayed here for a week in August and your air-conditioner was broken? One of those nights I woke up and you had your hands around my throat. And about a month later when we were staying in a love motel you put your hand on the side of my head and started pushing it down. That hurt a little, actually."

"Why didn't you tell me before?" he asks, standing in the middle of the one-room apartment like a nude sentinel, for the time being forgetting his toilet.

She puffs out a cloud of smoke the size of an apple (or a fist, or a hand grenade) and says, "The first time I didn't think it was anything abnormal. The second time I was going to, but you were so rushed for work that I decided to put it off until later, then I forgot."

"Third times the charm," he says, smirking. "Did I really hit you last night? You're not just making it up, are you?"

She looks offended. "Why would I do that?"

"I dunno. The intricacies of the female psyche baffle me. Maybe you're going to use it in the future as leverage when I do something that pisses you off, like 'and you abuse me in your sleep.'"

"Go fuck yourself."

"Hey, sorry. It's just that this is a little weird for me, wouldn't you agree?"

She says nothing.

"Look, I think we can both agree that I've been a very good boyfriend. I've always treated you with the utmost courtesy, and I've never shown any sort of temper."

After a long silence: "Maybe you're hiding something."

Indeed, he is as harmful as a square of toilet paper against an atomic weapon; but her comment switches on his sarcasm mechanism, and that is in perfect working order.

"That's it," he says, letting his chin fall to his chest like a condemned man, "you got me. You finally figured me out. I'm surprised it took you this long. I thought the chopped-up body parts in the freezer were a dead giveaway, but you never noticed. Same with the severed animal heads -- it's mostly rodents -- I keep in my sock drawer. Baby, you've got a great set of tits and legs to die for, but your deduction skills need some work."

For a moment, fire flashes in her eyes. In that split second she looks like a crazed tiger, perhaps a sedated one that has been prodded with a sharp stick, one for which the curtain of anesthesia has been temporarily lifted. Then, as quickly as that blaze was ignited, it is extinguished, and she (the tiger, the lady tiger) reassumes her formerly placid expression.

Feigningly turning her attention to a television reality show (Who Wants to be America's Next Top Dumbass!?), she lets out a sigh and says in a voice which belies her demeanor, "One of these days that smart mouth of yours is going to land you in trouble."

"Don't I know it sister," he responds, with an apologetic look that says fun is fun, but I realize now that it's neither the time nor place for it. Then, with a similar tiger's spark in his eyes, only this one mischievous: "We should probably get you back to the nursing home, ma'am. They're going to wonder where you were last night, and why your mattress has no fresh urine stains."

She smiles faintly at that. At least he thinks so.