“Yeah, you shouldn’t have. It was fucked up and cruel.” I enunciate each word clearly to make sure he knows what I’m asking of him: Own up to your shit. The emotion on his face shutters closed, tucking everything away neatly behind a mask of cold apathy. A defense mechanism, but I see through it. He nods and heads downstairs and out the door. There’s a brief moment when I feel bad. The deep programming all women have to protect men’s emotions even at the expense of your own. I shove that feeling down, because fuck that.
