I try not to focus on him and busy myself by picking my dress up off the floor. He turns around that instant, and I freeze as if I’m a kid caught stealing from a jar. “Don’t put that back on. It’s dirty and bloodied.” “Do you suggest I go out in a towel, genius?” “My wife wouldn’t go anywhere in a fucking towel.” I want to curse him for the possessive way he speaks, but my insides liquefy at the way he said ‘my wife’.
