“You tore this,” I said, “that night, remember?”
“It’s very little,” he said.
“A laceration nonetheless.”
I looked down at my chest, at the place where my shirt was torn. He’d reached up, excited, from below my body, moving to remove the blouse but tearing it instead. At the time, it’d been sexy, but looking back now, looking down at my chest, the finger-sized hole in my navy blue blouse seemed only a reminder of another tear. Of the navy blue hole in my rose colored heart.