I saw it coming, but I was too slow. 

     The solid, right hook knocked me off the dining room chair.  I plopped on the hardwood floor in a muffled thud.  Surprisingly, the chair was undisturbed.  I was the target.  I was continuously dazzled by the perfect execution and precision of it.  I landed painful on my right hipbone, a sudden rush of nausea forming in my throat.  I didn’t hear bells, but I did note an imaginary rattling as if something was out of place in my skull.  I tasted blood; my teeth cut a gash in my lower lip.  I swiped nervously at my mouth and stared at the crimson droplets falling on my Carolina Blue polo shirt. 

    The delicate aroma of chicken cordon bleu, buttered rolls, and garden vegetables surrounded us mockingly.  It would send the message to outsiders that we had a loving home.  My mind rattled with the Miles Davis jazz playing in the background. I glanced at the partially made table and sighed.

     Dinner was late and not on the table.

     The Afro-Modern décor of our home was the latest backdrop of “Kick Earl’s Ass” play I’ve been living.  When I landed, I had barely missed the corner of the intricately carved china cabinet.  The gold-gilt china was on display, The Oriental carpet, twined with colors of blue, gold, and green, lay underneath the cherry-stained dining set.  The table was only set for two; the extra settings were placed aside.  The feeble glow of the overhead lights gave the pearly-white walls a shell-pink haze.  Beyond the dining room is the warm, cozy kitchen with state of the art appliances.  

     We live in a modest, middle-class cul-de-sac on Summit Street.  Ah, the classic image of material prosperity.  Ha!  Our home is a backdrop.  It is the ultimate fool’s paradise.  We sure had it going on.  At least that’s what I read on the faces of visitors who hover on our doorstep.  The curious visits from our concerned (or was it “nosy”?) neighbors made getting close to anyone out of the question.  The High Point Police are our most frequent ones.  The boys in blue come at least once a month.   

     Once, I rallied my courage to make it to the downtown police department only to hesitate at the foreboding doors.  I would touch the door with shaky hand, hesitate and, dejected, retrace my steps to my car.  What would I say? How would I make anyone understand?   I shuddered.  I am a popular and talented architect.  My office is in the arts district where I can see my visions as far as I can possibly see from my office window.  Not only would this pariah of secrets get out, I would be ridiculed.  Probably ruined!   After all, High Point is a small city and the African American community knows each other’s business.  I won’t give them any more of mine. 

    A sharp kick jolted me back to the present.  I curled up in a fetal position to protect myself.  Whether this was rage or dead accuracy (I had to think “dead!”), the pointed shoes found every vulnerable spot I couldn’t cover.  Maliciously, Johnnie screwed her spiked heels in my left hand.  I swooned as a reluctant, high-pitched yelp escaped my throat.   I hate the kids are hearing this.  Especially EJ.  I see the barely concealed scorn on his young face. 

    Lord, just take me now.  If God is merciful, I will be unconscious when Johnnie spews her lies to the ER nurse.  Her full, chocolate face would mirror concern for “her man”.  Her pudgy body would have on the latest fashion a size too small, and her color treated hair styled too young for her age.  A tear or two forced from heavy, droopy eyes will be dramatically effective.  The nurse (just like the police) would cast dubious glances and ignore what I’ve tried to.    

    This 300-pound woman slaps around her 150 lb man. 

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