“What the fuck...” He tosses out in disgust.
“Sorry,” she stammers and runs to the washroom. She wishes she could disappear. With the click of the lock she wishes him gone too.
The cold water is running and Natasha leans into the sink, unable to distinguish her tears from the sweat brought on by her vomiting. Sometimes Natasha passes out when she vomits. That’s what she fears now, washing off the acrid taste on her lips with the cold, numbing sprinkling of water.
She hears a door shut, out there. He’s left, she thinks. She lets out a sigh of relief and dares for the first time to look at the face in the mirror.