Laila - Day 1 - Drip Drip - Dialogue Edit - AFTER

I look over to the door and shake my head. “I can’t do this. I can’t.”

“Oh come on. Just, let me in. Ok?”

“No.” I shake my head again, but inside all I want is to let him in. Let him wrap his arms around me and tell me that everything’s going to be ok because when my brain scans for options, I’m lost.

“I didn’t do anything wrong.” He says clear and matter of fact.

“Ah. My nose is bleeding because you punched it!”

“I can explain.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry isn’t good enough.”

“Well, you know. I never would have hit you if you didn’t provoke me.”

I blink my eyes and shake my head. “I provoked you?”

He huffs. “Yeah. My parents wanted us to come over for dinner.”

“You called me a bitch.”

“I didn’t call you a bitch. I said you were being a bitch.”

A laugh falls from me. “What’s the difference?”

“You overreacted.”

“So, you punched me?”

“Look. My parents gave us a lot of money. You should be more grateful.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Ah, babe, what’s wrong with you?” He says with a sarcastic slur.

“Ok. You need to leave.”

“I didn’t mean to get so mad. You, pushed me too far.”

“Oh. So, if I don’t agree with you, you’ll give me a little pop in the face to keep me in line?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“If you don’t get mad, neither will I.”

“It’s my job to keep your temper under control?”

“I said I was sorry. Just let it go, ok?”

“You. You need to leave.”

“I don’t want to leave.”

“I don’t care!”

I walk back over to the toilet, drop the lid and turn to plop my now chilled and bare body down. My elbows collapse onto my knees and head back into my hands.

Down on the linoleum floor I focus on the tiny pink roses that sit in each corner of this fake tile floor. A defeated laugh falls from me. Oh, the 80’s and it’s dusty rose. On the other side of the bathroom door I hear something slide down. Him. My husband. And then… Sobs…

“I’m… a mess. I can’t do this without you.” He pleads from the other side of the door.