Your drawer is filled with lipsticks—bright, matte, lip glosses—it's almost like a ritual for you. The sun kisses the earth, the rain kisses the leaves—your lips kiss him and leave a mark that he reluctantly erases. You leave a piece of yourself on every cup, on his homemade china, tasting the tea, on the plastic cups from parties with God knows what mixed in.
Nate thinks it's fascinating—an absolutely unique talent—to leave your mark so tenderly and vividly, to share your soul with a light touch. With regret, the water wipes the imprints of your lips from the surface, but he knows—you'll leave new ones. His girlfriend, kissing him like Aphrodite—like the Goddess of Love of all possible religions and beliefs. He almost clearly imagines the idyll of your home and your rounded belly—almost, but then he feels the rage stirring again.
Along with beauty, you're incredibly annoying.
His heart is like a dog wagging its tail at you in a gesture of absolute, unquestioning adoration. But people forget the fact that wolves were domesticated at will; a dog can be combative. And a painful biter.
It's an argument from nothing: you let flirting sweeten your evening at the party. In the next moment—a millisecond or less—the guy was met with a cold greeting of Nate's fury. And this isn't a dark love affair—it's a controlling, abusive pit. Nate ignores your pleas to slow down. The car is hurtling down a blacktop road; he doesn't intend to kill you both, but if it happens, it'll be the two of you. It's either that or nothing.
The house greets you with the cold embrace of a burgeoning fight. The shouting, the red imprints of his grip on your wrists—the cup you left on the kitchen island that morning falls down. The rim of the cup shatters neatly to leave a print of your lipstick on the shard-mocking.
"Fuck. Acting like a bitch now, yeah?" Nate runs a hand through his hair, trying to swallow his irritation. "Back off now."
You're either hurt by him or by no one. No other way.