“How can you still love me after what I did?” I ask him.

His chin is dipped down to his chest and he seems to be in deep thought after having confessed that to me.

“I never loved you for what you did or didn’t do,” he says. “That’s not what love is.”

I don’t quite know what he means and he doesn’t explain further. My hands are trembling around my beer, which has warmed to room temperature, but I can’t seem to let it go. It’s a sad day when beer becomes your anchor.

“I never went looking for love,” he says. “I didn’t know what I was missing. I had women who I thought I loved, who I spent time with, who I made love to. It all felt good until you came along. Then those encounters didn’t feel good anymore. It’s like living by a lake your whole life and then being taken to the ocean.”

I stare at him, not sure how to process what he’s saying. It’s a compliment no doubt, coming from the husband I abandoned six weeks after our wedding.

“But then the ocean shipwrecked you,” I say. He is an artist and I am a dose of reality.

“All that beauty and power turned against me,” he agrees.

It feels better to speak in metaphor, easier. It’s saying the truth without actually saying the truth. You could only speak to an artist this way. No one else would get it.

“Do you hate the ocean now?”

He shakes his head. “I just don’t believe in it anymore. It’s not something that’s wonderful and beautiful like I thought it was. It’s dangerous. I won’t go in past my knees.”

“Maybe it’s better just to look at the ocean,” I suggest. “Maybe none of us should go in.”

He turns to look at me then. “But I can’t stop thinking about the ocean. It got in my head. The roar it makes—both peaceful and angry. The way its mood changes every day. The way it washes some things away and drags some things to your feet. It gives and it takes away. It cleanses and kills. It’s a fury, but also the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I can’t look at a lake the same way again. Lakes are shallow, lakes are predictable, lakes dry up.”

I bite my lip and turn my head away to stare out the window. My heart is racing in the way hearts race when they’re afraid. I want to ask him if Petra the whore is a lake or an ocean, but I don’t have the balls.

“So what will you do?” I’m asking about the divorce, his marriage to Petra, the papers he never seems to produce, but that’s not what David Lisey hears. He’s the type of person who hears selectively. That’s what makes him a good songwriter, I guess. He listens for the things he wants to hear and then makes beauty out of them.

“I’ll write a song,” he says.

That makes me angry. I’m on the wrong side of the booth. I can’t shove my way past him. I can’t climb over his lap. I’m trapped. I realize he sat next to me this way on purpose, to keep me there when I tried to run. He’s learning me.

“That’s why you keep finding me,” I say. “Because I’m your goddamn muse.”

I push my weight against him so he knows I want out. I’m rageful; my eyes are burning with righteous tears.

“Maybe you shouldn’t marry a girl who doesn’t inspire you in the same way.” I’m looking for something mean to say, something to make him hurt, and I find it.

“I didn’t,” he says simply. “I married you.”

“Yes, and now you’re here asking for a divorce.”

“I’ve never asked for a divorce,” he says.

My mouth is open to shoot out more words. I close it to think. Had I been the one to surmise that? Had he ever said the word divorce?

“You told me that you’re engaged to Petra,” I say.

His face falls. I wonder at the sudden darkness.

“I am.”

“Ugh!” I make a noise. I sound like a woman giving birth. I drop my head into my hands and wish to God that I hadn’t sat on this side of the booth. Trapped like an idiot, trapped like a fool. And in this dingy bar where no one would help me even if I screamed. But, I’m not trapped, am I? I look up, suddenly hopeful. I’ve always been the one in power just because I cared less—or let’s be honest—pretended to. 

“Move, David,” I force those two words out, hard and steady. “I’m done here.”

“No, you’re not,” he says. “And I’m not either.”

“Oh please,” I say it just as harsh as I intended to. “My mother lives somewhere in England. She neglected me for half my life and hasn’t made a move to find me in over eight years. That’s unfinished business. I’m just some girl you married on impulse. It was a blow to your pride that I left, not your heart.” I shove at him so that he slides an inch in the right direction. “You shacked up with the girl who caused me insecurity in our relationship.” I shove at him again. “I may be a runner, I may be a coward, but I’m an honest whatever I am. I didn’t try to pull one over on you. You knew exactly what you were getting into with me.” He’s on the edge of the booth now. One more shove and I’ll be free. “You’re with Petra to hurt me. Don’t even deny it.”

I push at him with my whole body and then he’s on his feet and so am I. I head for the door, stumbling past men holding drinks like they’re props. What the fuck is this place? I bump into someone, knocking his drink onto his shirt. He’s a thick guy, neck like a bull. When his vodka spills, it makes an arc in slow motion and lands on his very expensive looking silk tie. I’ve never seen a man with thicker wrists, seriously.

“Bitch,” he says the word like he says it a lot. He’s the type of man who calls women bitch like it’s their name.

“Say it again,” I say. “And I’ll cut your fucking tongue out.”

I say it in English but he understands me. His eyes become two hard, amused things. I mean it. If he calls me a bitch again I’ll claw at him until I’m dead. I don’t care a thing about what bad people can do to me. I care about what good people can do. David swoops in. I don’t know where he comes from, or how quickly he moved, but he’s there between me and Hercules, telling him I’m drunk.

Hercules looks at me over David’s shoulder like he’s evaluating whether or not to believe the story. I don’t look drunk. I’m not swaying or bleary-eyed and I don’t want to pretend to be. I return his gaze, not faltering for one second. I’m not scared of him and I want him to know it.

“Get that bitch out of here,” he says to David.

And then I’m loose like a rock out of a slingshot. I launch myself at him, aiming for his face. David grabs me before my hands can make contact, and I am left clawing at the air. The men around start to laugh. I am just a girl thwarted, pulled aside by men stronger than me. As soon as his grip loosens I move quick as a bird. I have a promise to deliver. I reach Hercules and punch him in the nose. I have so much anger invested in that punch that his meaty head snaps backward and blood sprays. Next thing I know it’s David who is getting hit. Right in the jaw for protecting me. I watch fists rain down on him as he tries to steady himself. He hits too, first Hercules, and then a bystander. My body clenches in worry. They’ll kill him—these are the type of men who will kill him. My phone is in my pocket. I pull it out and dial the police.

What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?

My hand is throbbing from the contact with Hercules’ nose. There is blood on my knuckles and my clothes. Someone grabs my hair and yanks me backward as I see David go down onto his knees and then his side. I scream, but my scream is drowned out by everyone else’s noise. Someone is holding me back. I kick at them until they release me and then I run for David, throwing my body over his. For a few minutes I sustain the blows. Kicks to my back and legs. My abdomen is crushed against his body, so they hurt what they can. And then there is the sound of police sirens and the men scatter. We are taken to the hospital separately. With David there is a sense of urgency. I get a flash of his face as they carry him into the ambulance and I can’t make out his features amidst the blood.

What have I done? What have I done?