He could blame a dozen different things. Too much coke. Cheap vodka. The dead-end job.
But there was only one person he was taking it out on.
He stood motionless, watching her cup her bruised cheek, the purples and blues already starting to bloom, the damage done.
Yet all he could think about: provoking his wife. Getting her to hit back, to do something to him so this all wouldn’t be so… one-sided.
Otherwise, no one’s ever gonna believe his story or think she was at least partly at fault.
And he’d be on the fast-track back to prison. Again.
The Weekday One Hundred 