I pushed the door in.
Monica was sitting on the metal frame of the bed with her dress pulled up around her waist, one hand pressed hard between her legs and the other braced flat on the mattress beside her hip.
Not moving. Neither hand moving.
Just held there—fingers rigid, the whole arm locked from shoulder to wrist, like she was keeping something down rather than doing anything at all.
She didn't pull the dress over her legs. She didn't turn away or make any of the small hurried movements a person makes when a door opens on them.
She looked at me.
And I stood in that doorway with my hand still on the wood and understood I hadn't walked in on anything.
There was nothing to interrupt. That was a woman holding a lid on with her whole body, and me opening the door hadn't changed one thing about the fight she was already in the middle of.
The tray sat at the end of the frame with the food barely touched.
