Blood from my nose dripped onto the concrete through my fingers and you stood there with clenched fists. I would have marveled at it if I wasn’t so scared that you were going to swing again.
Your eyes were filled with an anger I had never seen—from anyone. So I backed away, taking small, careful steps as if you were some kind of wild animal. Your breath came heavy, mine in shuttering gasps.
Everything screamed predator and prey.
There was a pain exploding through my head, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of you. I was even ready to run, though I knew that I’d never outrun you.
Suddenly, you dropped to your knees, unclenched your fists and began to wail. You still reminded me of a wild animal, and that is why I did not move to comfort you. I could not believe that this was remorse. I could believe it was a trap, but not remorse.
I finally got the nerve to turn my back and get into my car. I finally got the nerve to leave you on the ground of the parking lot.
We didn’t speak the next day, or the day after that. You never apologized, and I never tried to get you to do it. A predator does not apologize to its prey. The prey does not want an apology. It just wants to get away; it just wants to live.
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