I knew something was wrong the second she walked into the room.
The sky outside had turned the color of bruises, and somehow she matched it. She looked thinner than I remembered, as if life had been feeding on her slowly. Her blouse was buttoned to the neck even though June heat pressed against the windows. Makeup covered part of her face, but not enough. There was a bruise on her cheekbone. Her mouth tried to smile and failed.
She sat down across from me with a small basket of fruit. Even the oranges looked bruised.
“How are you, Nay?” she asked softly, like she was afraid her own voice might break.
I didn’t answer the question. I reached for her wrist instead. She flinched.
“What happened to your face?”
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“I fell,” she said too quickly. “Off my bike.”
I looked at her hands then. Swollen fingers. Red knuckles. The hands of someone who had tried to shield herself.
“Tell me the truth.”
“I’m fine.”
I grabbed her sleeve and pulled it up before she could stop me.
The room went cold.
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