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He places his palm on her leg, casually, hoping she’ll ignore it, let it rest there. She remains silent, tolerant, passive, though she’s acknowledged it, and he knows she has.
Why does she allow it? They were together, once. Not so long ago, they were together, and happy. At least they pretended they were, and maybe he truly was, although she was not. Now she must see him, she must put up with him. She doesn’t want to, she doesn’t like to, she doesn’t like him, but she must. So she is tolerant, passive, mute. Sometimes she is screaming, she is yelling, she is hurting him, but only in her head. Her objection gets lost in translation, lost somewhere in her body, and never makes it to her mouth.
Perhaps he can, perhaps he is allowed to, perhaps it is his right, since he once touched her this way. Yet they’re not together anymore, and he’s on his way to see the other girl, the new one.

It’s only when they’re alone. With friends, with witnesses, he stays away from her. It happens when they’re alone, that’s when he takes hold of her. Does he own her? It feels as though he may, and so she feels she mustn’t protest; this is his right, she’s in the wrong. He stumbles over, lunges towards her, takes her by the waist; she is held to him now, and there is no escaping it. He presses his head against hers, and pushes further into her back with his fingertips. He whispers to her. Hot air escapes his parted lips and invades her. She cannot speak; she must not. She wishes for him to leave. After some time, he does. He leaves her in solitude and returns to the crowd.
Once there, he doesn’t look at her, except perhaps by accident, or when she says a certain something, or does a certain something. Then, he stares. When he doesn’t have hold of her, she finds her voice, she finds herself again. She talks to someone, a stranger, she laughs. She turns her head, and there he is, across the room, his eyes fixed on her. They pierce her, they take hold. They are oddly cold. She can feel him inside of her, and she loses herself. She looks away, but he is still inside.

His hands are on her, taking over. One lies on her breast, the other on her neck, in her hair, on her face. He kisses her head; an unwanted token. She is pulled into him, but what is she to do?! She cannot think, she cannot stop it. Perhaps it is all a joke. He often jokes, but he is serious now. She can feel it in his breath against her neck, in his body pressed against hers.
He doesn’t look at her when he does it. Or perhaps he does. She doesn’t know, as she does not look at him. She doesn’t want to, for then it would be real, it would be him doing this to her. The person would have a face, and it would be his. She doesn’t want that.

She takes sanctuary on a spare bed one night. In silence, he enters the bedroom. Without a word, he lies down beside her, facing her back. She does not look at her visitor; she knows it’s him. They lie parallel to each other for a few long moments, the sole audible sound that of their un-synchronized breathing. She feels his hand land on her body. It slides under her arm and down her chest until it comes to rest under her breasts. There it stays for a while, before it continues on to where it lies tucked under her body, against the mattress. It pulls. It pulls her into him. She feels in that moment a sort of sadness from him which she can’t quite figure out. She speaks his name in the darkness. He doesn’t respond, save with a kiss. She pulls his arm off her and walks away, leaving him in solitude.