The Enigma [18+]

three

trigger warning: domestic violence, abuse

you flower, you feast

September 01, 2003
|dominic romano|

Red had always been his favorite color. Not bright cherry red or dark carnelian, but somewhere in between. A muted red, like the tint that drifted across Myra Dalton's cheeks when she was angry; Red like the color of her lipstick that evening when she called him cruel.

It was difficult to stay put while the young lady danced across the bar under colorful lights. She looked wild. Carefree. Untamed.

Even Elena Johnson failed at providing an adequate distraction with her marvelous stories about her summer vacation. Dominic's best friend and colleague rambled about a nursery room, but his attention was drawn elsewhere.

No, he couldn't take his eyes off of Myra Dalton even if he tried.

In some twisted way, he envied her and the way she danced with her friends. She sang a second time, shouting into the microphone with Quincy Barot. It was hard to keep her at bay and Dominic continued to sulk in his seat.

Myra Dalton is vibrant. Jovial. Lively.

All the things that he is not.

Throughout the entirety of the evening, Dominic was subjected to her bratty side-eye glances and eye rolls. The older gentleman knew that he shouldn't have kept watching her because it was wrong. He should've looked away before she had the chance to occupy his mind.

Much to his dismay, it was far too late for that.

His pent-up frustration made the evening almost unbearable. She was deliberately testing his patience and he could do nothing about it, despite every cell in his being aching to reprimand her.

He had enough when Myra Dalton moved her body against another student, who enjoyed himself far too much. It took every bit of restraint to not drag her out of the bar.

His student.

Dominic managed to convince himself that he was deserving of her hatred, spending his night thinking of the young woman that he ridiculed in front of the entire class. He sorely regretted what he said at the bar too, and it would not have been a surprise if she were to drop his class.

It had gone too far.

The weekend slipped away and Monday arrived like a crisp breeze.

The campus was silent at 7:03 A.M. and Dominic reached the classroom earlier than usual, surprised to find none other than Miss Dalton sitting on the dirty floor.

He just couldn't escape her.

Her ankles were crossed and she leaned against the wall, paying no attention to his presence as he approached the classroom. She was drawn to her work, her pen moving across her folded notebook.

In her other hand, she held a toasted plain bagel.

Dominic almost dropped his leather briefcase after spotting the marks on her neck that she tried to cover with makeup. It was a poor attempt, the purple bruises peeking through the layer of concealer and powder. Love bites. Fuck.