My thumb and forefinger repeatedly click and unclick the cap from the lipstick. An overnight bag sits on the floor at my feet, half unpacked from the conference. The wait has been interminable, enhanced by the suffocating warmth of our marital bed where I sit.
Click, click.
Maybelline. Perilous plum.
The front door slams, and the heart-thumping panic of inevitable confrontation eclipses a fleeting plea for more time. Blood sings in my ears as I catch the clack of the hangar holding his jacket into the hall cupboard. I feel his footfalls along the uneven floorboards, muffled by the threadbare rug. A fencer approaching his unseen opponent.
Click, click.
The knob glimmers as it turns, an ancient dent in the brass reflecting a distorted grid from the bedroom window.
Click.
The door yawns open. Heat rushes to my face, and hairs rise like iron filings on my scalp. I momentarily weaken. I want him to hold me, kiss me, and tell me he loves me. But determination kicks my conscience as I remember why I am waiting. I want to hate him instead.
I point the lipstick, and wave it in precise circles like a foil.
He steps closer to inspect the article in my hand, the one I found in our bathroom cabinet as I put away my toiletries. He blanches. He always appreciated my natural look, no make-up.
Taking a step backwards, he prepares to parry.
I stand and face him across the piste. My arm pulls back, and I hurl the lipstick with all my force. It flies end over end through the air. A crimson tick appears on his brow.
Red Revenge.
His eyes cloud, and his brow plummets to a dark furl before he strides towards me.
I raise my chin and wait for the final riposte.