Blank Notes

Her legs were folded underneath her as she sat straight up on their bed, staring at the small compact that came with her blush as it balanced on her left knee. Her iPod, or her Zune, whatever--her mp3 player was lying on the bed, pumping out music that he couldn't hear. He bet it was something angry. She didn't look up at him. He didn't try to catch her attention. She was applying eye-liner. She probably didn't want to hear him tell her she was putting on too much. She'd heard him tell her that almost every morning and every night she had ever put on make-up. Sometimes it didn't bother her. Sometimes she giggled. Sometimes she rolled her eyes. Once she began talking about the merits of putting on a good face, and the inequalities women have to deal with in western culture. He hadn't been ready for that conversation. But this morning she hadn't even responded when he walked behind her as she stood in front of the mirror. He had paused by the bedroom door for an extra moment, waiting for a response, and finding every muscle in his arms and face pulsating in anticipation of some grand fight--physical or verbal. But she would never have given him that, the pleasure of a resolution, no matter how unsettling, painful, bloody.