the taste of blood in a wife's mouth. retracting as if it were a big dream, his, husband, his big dream cusped within several objects; a fancy hat, a decorated landscape, misshapen sharper hurt. she reaches a certain point of refinement, or rawness; he calls her sugar, begs her to wear his black eye. indistinguishable distance, or space, how wide is this? apologies inch around, underneath her skin and breasts for overcooking the pasta, for skinning the turkey too raw to habit. but it is silent, an image of a woman tied up in her own skin, a crushed throat to hold behind a door with a fucked up lock, you can only imagine the distance from throat to face; in the space he admired most, with miles to go, he draws her out deeper. she wears discomfort like a tiny bathing suit, does normal every day people things, and eats his cluttered rage as if it were nothing. he will later, as a well groomed husband, sit down with knife and fork, her empty tears watering down milk to salt.