Middle Rage

Maria -- 21

The kids are at school. Soren and I are naked in bed, forehead to forehead. He breathes out and I breathe in. Sunlight filters through the drawn drapes. Other couples fight, do date nights, or go to therapy. We do this. If he is stressed and I say, "Come with me and breathe it out," he must come with me and get naked and stay next to me until we either talk or screw or calm down.

Usually, he doesn't talk. If he could tell me what he's seen on the job, he could cry, and then feel some sort of relief. Soren doesn't want relief. Victims don't get relief until he does his job. He is tantric when it comes to saving all his energy, all his obsession, only allowing himself release at the conclusion of the case.

I wrap my arm around him and massage the nape of his neck. Soren exhales long and slow. The space between us fills with the smell of his body, telling me his secrets. They say there's a woman out there who can smell Parkinson's, and I believe it. Sometimes I catch the acid of Soren's turning stomach if a case is going poorly, or the sickly sweet whiff of fever. Today he's tinged with garlicky salami breath and the battery taste-smell of physical work. I breathe it in. I accept all parts of him.

Waiting for whatever it is to show itself, my mind wanders. In the beginning, it bothered me he hardly spoke, that he never spoke about his feelings. During our first fight, I peppered him with accusations, all my thoughts and fears. His fists clenched. He stared mid-distance. Like I had broken him with words.

"Let me in!" I had screamed, pounding my fists on his chest, are of how it made my breasts jiggle, desperate to draw him in as I pushed him away.

"There was no fighting in my family," he'd said.

I didn't believe him. My family was only fighting and chaos.

Over time, he would tell me what he meant: in his family, you got beaten until there was no argument left in you, so if you had to fight, you'd better be ready to kill or die. Soren did not know how to fight any other way, and he did not want to hurt me.

No one I loved had ever not wanted to hurt me before. I didn't understand. He didn't either. We had to start from nothing.

I keep my breathing even, my face relaxed. Sometimes in the quiet, I realize it's me who needs to talk.

I mull telling Soren the neighborhood gossip about Aimee and Oma wanting to do an intervention. Soren likes to know about my life. There's always a barrier between Soren and our friends because of his job. I enjoy being his eyes and ears. Sometimes when I'm turned on, I fill my head with dirty talk, calling myself his little snitch. I'll fantasize about the things he might do to make me give up the juiciest gossip. I pretend whatever I know is key information he'd do anything to coax from my lips.

But in the silence, I decide I won't tell him about Jenn. First, and most obvious: He kept Dan's vomit, which means my husband already suspects something's amiss. Telling him Jenn's getting her ass beat will only supply my husband with a motive. I don't really care if Aimee and Oma get in trouble for what they did, and if it wasn't for Soren, I'd take my slap on the wrist for my part in their stupidity. But I can't bear to disappoint Soren, or shame him in front of his work family.

The second reason is more fuzzy. Soren and I both grew up in violent families, and Soren is fiercely protective of victims. He's not like most men, who would threaten to beat the shit out of an abuser, as though violence would teach a violent man to not be violent.

Instead, he would take Jenn under his wing. He would find a way to bump into her once a week, be kind to her, make sure she's OK. Soren knows most women stay, and wouldn't pressure her to leave. He would just be there for her, offering support, letting her know she had connections. He might even decide that vomit in the freezer could get tossed, there's nothing provable there, and investigating might endanger Jenn further.