When I did finally feel Theo near, it was his fist against my cheek. And I did what any woman would have done under the circumstance––I pushed away from Alexander and claimed my side of the bed alone to meet Theo's flesh to my own, letting him assault me with his fury. And I began to laugh.
With each blow I howled hysterically, screaming insults at him, taunting him like I always do about his unmanliness.
His bulk gorged with beer and bragging could not suck anymore out of me than the tiny bit of blood that oozed from my lip. What blood did gush was my own woman's blood that flowed month after month, year after year, for these twenty-three years with no break, with no child to show for all the pain and fluid––the very proof that Theo was no man, was no husband, but a soldered off old bull good only for pulling the plow and teasing the cows to distraction.