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Show THE BRUISE-4 and so we talk, my mirror and I; we rehearse, practice. We practice for the doctors at Bellevue, the social workers, wardens, the executioner, and for my mother when she finally visits. What I will tell my mother is this: "Hey Mom. There's something you ought to know about Dad." No, I will say, simply, "Mom, please don't let him come up here any more." I will say help. But instead I eat lasagne at Elaine's and work on the second bottle of wine. Mark is on. the verge of scolding me in the way of those men who think I drink too much, but I say quickly, "How about skipping the show and just coming on up?" You have to be a little bit intelligent. As we are about to drive off in his Triumph, we are surrounded by men. One throws open Mark's door and points a gun into his face. I watch Mark slide off his watch, his head turned rigidly toward the gun, take out his wallet. I have locked my door, but someone is tapping at the window, gesturing for me to roll it down. It is a man with wide frightened eyes. I shake my head, then shrug, bend to my purse, take out my wallet, stretch it wide to show him I'm not holding anything back, roll down the window a crack, slip out the bills. It feels oddly natural, like buying something at the store: I hand them the money. They take it. The only difference is I get nothing in exchange. Mark is upset and doesn't want to come up, so tomorrow I will wake up to clothes hung neatly. It will be much easier to make it to work, too. And how would I have explained the bruise? But I am trapped like a moon hooked between clouds, can no longer read because my eyes won't focus, can't sleep either. This feels too much like |