By Amanda Aboajewah Kingsley

He was the colour of dark mahogany these days, strong and weathered but more beautiful for it, from trips to sunnier climes throughout Europe. Without me. His apology message invited me to a dinner he apparently had not reserved. Awe and envy fought over me as I watched him wrangle us a table in the restaurant, while those ahead of us had been swiftly turned away. I hated his natural distinction. The easy elegant manner he made inconvenient requests. Bitterly, I descended into the dim-lit seating area behind him. In the reflection of the mirror above the stairway, I glimpsed his bald head, shiny and black in the low light, like a small oil spill. I pause to look at myself. My eyes are drawn first to my nipples gently pushing through the layers of my chiffon blouse, then the crease in my skirt where I tucked it between my thighs on the train. I succeed in flattening it out a bit with my hand. I notice that I am darker, weathered too, darker even than him, but not more beautiful for it.

The capitulator is reading him the specials as if it is understood that women attached to men do not own money or stomachs. I want to inform her that behind his professional authority and worldly charm, he is a weakling who wipes his stinking ass with his principles to slip between the legs of underage girls. I would tell her, on his trips, he likes to keep the children in filthy flats where you can hear the ragged claws of rats scuttle across the floors over muffled whimpers. I would not tell her I am his wife, because she would ask me why I stay with him. I tell her the salmon sounds good.

When she takes our menus, he reaches for my hand across the table, Thank you for coming Adjoa. I let him graze a finger and then quickly busy my hands with the crease in my skirt.  Feeling slighted, he curtly reminds me I am free to go; he is not holding a gun to my head. I should take the out, leave him, report him to the police. Instead I reflexively reach back for his hand and carry on. The reality of freedom grounded me and the extent of my self-loathing easily accommodates the guilt of my complicity. I know tonight I will let him move inside me, concealing the weapon with my body. And in the end, when they arrest him, and I finally “break my silence”, I will have deleted his apologies and tell them that I was terribly naïve and did not know.

Amanda Aboajewah Kingsley is a book-reader, lawyer, essayist and writer of fiction.

This story was shortlisted for the Bad Form x Bad Love short story competition

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