Take Me or Leave Me

“We need to talk.” Maria whispers, peeking around the corner.

Harry narrows her tired eyes, making no attempt to hide her suspicious expression. She doesn’t notice it, mostly because it's become a reflex whenever Maria  approaches, quiet and contained in her premeditated movements. Harry’s older than Maria. She ought to be wiser. Even after years as a junior partner, deadlines always  seem to creep up on her. The clock has just ticked past four o'clock, and if this isn't finished by seven-thirty, Harry can kiss that promotion goodbye. 

“We can talk in a couple hours. I’m in the middle of something.” Harry glances up from the contract she’s drafting, measuring her tone in order to perfectly convey what she means without being explicit. Talking is never just talking anymore. Not with Maria. Not anymore. It’s always a slippery slope, one wrong word and they’re rehashing an old argument, screaming familiar lines of rationale until Harry eventually caves out of frustration. Refusing to engage, it seems, does nothing to improve the tension in her shoulders, or the tingling numbness in her fingers. Her body has an eerie awareness of Maria’s moods. 

Harry can feel eyes drilling into the back of her head the moment she turns back to her laptop. The intensity of the stare sends a shiver up her spine, vertebrae rattling against each other in the exhausted sack of flesh she calls a body. 

“Harriet. Do you not love me anymore?” 

The question is simple. Harry’s heard it a million times before. Always prefaced by her full name. Always in that tone. But this time, the words sink into her shoulders and drag her down, posture crumbling to rest her head against the cool hardwood of the table. She sighs, imagining the long sequence of gibberish that now comprises her 2nd addendum, a string of letters that almost resembles language. 

"Mia--" 

"You always have something more important than me. You're always busy with work."

Harry rolls her eyes as she raises her head. "I was a lawyer when you met me."

 It had been eight long years ago when they first spoke, back when Maria was a secretary at a rival law firm. Something about the forbidden romance had been irresistible. The attraction was almost magnetic, and after a few too many drinks, Harry and Maria found themselves a quiet hallway, Harry pushed against the wall, Maria's warm hands roaming mischievously under Harry's skirt. Harry's breathy moans had provided a delightful accompaniment to the delicate violins of that evening's orchestra. 

But it's been a long time since Harry has felt comfortable enough to wilfully another argument, or to prove a point, or to get one minute of peace. 

"You love to rub it in, don't you?" 

"Huh?" Harry is far too sleep-deprived for Maria's expectation of mind-reading. 

"That you make more money than me. That's why you always leave me behind, isn't it?"

Harry measures her breathing. She doesn't know why she thought this issue would somehow resolve itself. "You literally told me that you didn't want to come." 

"Because I'm tired of watching you flirt with everyone there!"

If by flirt Maria means talk, then sure, Harry can agree with that statement. "I don't flirt with anybody, Maria. You know that." 

So much for not engaging. 

"Are you sleeping with someone else? You’re keeping me a secret so you can sleep around like a whore!" 

Harry runs a hand through her locs, scratching at her scalp. She places her palms against the table's edge, silently noting that she can still feel the ridges under her fingertips. Harry shivers. She still remembers that time Maria went crazy with the ice pick. 

"Just because I'm not out, doesn't mean you're a secret." Harry pushes herself away from the table, holding her hands up in surrender as she stands to face her girlfriend. "And for the 187th time... No, I'm not sleeping with anyone else. Not my boss, or my co-workers, or any random person who happens to look at me." She preempts the usual list of suspects, counting them off on her fingers. "Now, please, can we talk after the sun comes up?" 

Always relentless in the worst pursuits, Maria continues: "How do I know you're telling me the truth?" 

"You could just believe me." Harry offers. Her previous responses to the question have never bode well. 

She doesn't see Maria's hand, lightning fast. She never does. 

The morning skyline always proved a welcome attraction, a stunning skyscape as the sun plays hide-and-seek behind the palm tree lining the beach. Harry never really has time to gaze anymore, not when the early morning hours are now occupied by patting concealer over black eyes, and icing bruises, and hoping nothing is broken. 

“You’re late. Again.” 

Whatever hope Harry had had of being invisible instantly evaporates. If only her boss knew the truth behind the late entrances and desperately delayed exits. “A-are you going to fire me?” 

“Thankfully, your work is always on time.” Wilson continues, “Do you at least have a decent excuse this time?” 

If checking for broken bones counts as a decent excuse, then yes, Harry has a decent excuse. But that won’t go over well for her promise of career advancement. Maybe this is the time to come clean. This is the salvation, the sign she had been beseeching the universe for the last four years. 

Or maybe this is a trap. To admit the abuse, would be to admit her weakness. To admit her sexual orientation. To admit, that for all her fancy Ivy League education, she absorbs the insults Maria throws at her, that render her worthless and inept at anything she attempts. She chooses the safest option. 

“I got mugged."