with iceberg lettuce and a tomato for a salad. The main course was marinated strip steaks.
She’d put the steaks in the marinade the day before: red wine, orange juice, grapefruit juice, salt, and pepper. The acidity of the juices made the meat tender and gave it extra flavor. It was in a casserole dish on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator.
She put the rest of the groceries away, rotating the older items to the front, then folded the bags and put them under the sink. From a drawer, she removed a knife; the cutting board was beneath the toaster and she set that near the burner. She cut the potatoes in half, only enough for the two of them. She oiled a baking pan, turned the oven on, and seasoned the potatoes with parsley, salt, pepper, and garlic. They would go in before the steaks and she would have to reheat them. The steaks needed to be broiled.
Kevin liked his salads finely diced, with blue cheese crumbles and croutons and Italian dressing. She cut the tomato in half and cut a quarter of the cucumber before wrapping the remainder in plastic wrap and putting it back in the refrigerator. As she opened the door, she noticed Kevin in the kitchen behind her, leaning against the doorjamb that led to the dining room. He took a long drink, finishing his vodka and continuing to watch her, his presence all-encompassing.
He didn’t know she’d left the salon, she reminded herself. He didn’t know she’d bought a cell phone. He would have said something. He would have done something.
“Steaks tonight?” he finally asked.
She closed the refrigerator door and kept moving, trying to appear busy, staying ahead of her fears. “Yes,” she said. “I just turned on the oven, so it’ll be a few minutes. I’ve got to put the potatoes in first.”
Kevin stared at her. “Your hair looks good,” he said.
“Thank you. She did a good job.”
Katie went back to the cutting board. She began to cut the tomato, making a long slice.
“Not too big,” he said, nodding in her direction.
“I know,” she said. She smiled as he moved to the freezer again. Katie heard the clink of cubes in his glass.
“What did you talk about when you were getting your hair done?”
“Not much. Just the usual. You know how stylists are. They’ll talk about anything.”
He shook his glass. She could hear the cubes clink against the glass. “Did you talk about me?”
“No,” she said.
She knew he wouldn’t have liked that and he nodded. He pulled the bottle of vodka out again and set it beside his glass on the counter before moving behind her. He stood, watching over her shoulder as she diced the tomatoes. Small pieces, no larger than a pea. She could feel his breath on her neck and tried not to cringe as he placed his hands on her hips. Knowing what she had to do, she set the knife down and turned toward him, putting her arms around his neck. She kissed him with a little tongue knowing he wanted her to, and didn’t see the slap coming until she felt the sting against her cheek. It burned, hot and red. Sharp. Bee stings.
“You made me waste my entire afternoon!” he shouted at her. He gripped her arms tight, squeezing hard. His mouth was contorted, his eyes already bloodshot. She could smell the booze on his breath, and spittle hit her face. “My only day off and you pick that day to get your damn hair done in the middle of the city! And then go grocery shopping!”
She wiggled, trying to back away, and he finally let her go. He shook his head, the muscle of his jaw pulsing. “Did you ever stop to think that I might have wanted to relax today? Just take it easy on my only day off?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, holding her cheek. She didn’t say that she’d checked with him twice earlier in the week if it would be okay, or that he was the one who made her switch salons because he didn’t want her making friends. Didn’t want anyone knowing their business.
“I’m sorry,” he mimicked her. He stared at her before shaking his head again. “Christ almighty,” he said. “Is it so hard for you to think about anyone other than yourself?”
He reached out, trying to grab her, and she turned, trying to run. He was ready for her and there was nowhere to go. He struck fast and hard, his