Serevina’s Lament

He looked into my eyes and began to speak. My pupils locked onto his, my usual attempt to intimidate-- or force empathy.

I wasn't paying attention. Not this time. Or the last time. Or the time before that. I didn't need to. His reasons were always the same. I could zone out, dreaming of a life free from conversations like this, and then come back at a moment's notice with a loosely relevant rebuttal.

His arm slipped around my waist. That was my cue. My shoulder dropped. I said my lines. Beer breath and stubble grazed across the tensing muscles of my neck. Tiny wails erupted from the other room and interrupted his attempts at recovery.

I seized the opportunity and leapt to my feet. He tugged at the crotch of his tightening jeans and indicated he'd wait for me to return. I hoped for the soiled diaper of an especially hungry child. The longer I took, the more likely it was that he'd be asleep when I returned.

I am a slave to my patterns-- and his.