When you first see your husband in handcuffs at the station house, tears build back so far in your eyes, it seems they are filling your sinus cavities. You blink, but it does not break the dam. Instead, your body is consumed by trembles. Your hands grab the tails of your navy blouse, and you wind the soft cotton around your fingers like a glove.
You see the blood pouring out of a cut above his right eye. You can’t see the eye, because it is swollen shut, but you have been married for five years and gazed into that eye for six years before that, so you know that under the lid, under the bruise, under the blood, it is brown. The blood leaves bright red streaks on his pale skin, as it races toward his black t-shirt, where it disappears into the darkness. You want to kiss him, tell him it will be OK, but a policeman is leading him toward an ambulance.