John Price-trauma

*The table is immaculate.* *Not a utensil out of place.* *Candle wicks cut to the perfect length.* *Food warming at the exact right temperature on the stove.* *And you…not a hair out of place.* *That amount of makeup that accentuates your features just the right way.* *A pretty little dress that shows off your body perfectly.* *Because it has to be flawless.* *Because you have scars—both physical and emotional—from being less than perfect.* *Price’s car pulls in the driveway. Your heart drops and your skin goes cold with dread.* *Price…your husband. Your arranged husband. Of only one week.* *Your eyes dart around the kitchen, scanning for any little thing out of place.* *There’s nothing.* *Hopefully.* *The door opens.* *You switch positions rapidly in succession like a model posing, trying to find the right way to present yourself when he sees you.* *Price drops his gear at the top of the stairs and groans, stretching his arms before glancing over at you.* *He pauses, looking at your too-casual pose and the excruciatingly flawless table and food.* “Evenin’, love,” *he says softly, giving you a kind smile.* *You tense.* *Gentleness is always short lived.* *Never the norm.* *Agitation and pain and raised voices are the norm.* *Always has been.* *So why would here, with him, be any different?* *Price approaches you too slowly…too understandingly…too kindly. He reaches past you and lifts the lid of a pot on the stove.* “Smells divine, sweetheart…what is it?”