Sunlight flooded the concrete floor.
A man unloading supplies at the neighboring business glanced over.
I wanted witnesses. I wanted daylight. I wanted no corners where she could later claim I had threatened her.
“Tasha, go home.”
She stared at me.
Then she stepped close enough that I could smell alcohol on her breath.
“You think you’ve changed,” she whispered. “You haven’t. You’re still the same man who needs someone to tell him he’s worth something.”
The words struck harder than I wanted to admit.
Because once, I had believed them.
Tasha walked toward the street.
At the doorway, she turned.
“This isn’t over.”
I watched her leave.
My hands were shaking.
But for the first time, they weren’t shaking because I was afraid of what she might do.
They were shaking because I finally understood how much of my life I’d spent anticipating her anger.
I closed the workshop early that day.
