"Hey, we're not home right now, leave a message an--Tom, will you stop that? I'm trying to record a fucking--"

Beep!

I sigh as the machine's greeting cuts off and Tom's voice comes across the tape, slightly scratchy and a little lost in the background noise. Too loud for a bar, even at this hour--it must be a party.

"Mark?"

Don't answer.

"Ma-aark." He draws my name out to three syllables, lilting at the end like a small child. "Mark, I know you're home. Answer. Answer answer answer answer me-eee..."

Don't pick up the phone.

"I'm sorry." His voice wavers like he's on the verge of tears, but he might just as easily be laughing. "I didn't mean it, okay? C'mon, pick up the phone. I said I was sorry. I love you."

My hand is halfway to the table before I notice and force it back down to my side. Don't answer.

"Mark! Pick up the fucking phone!" his shout makes me jump, makes me glad I didn't answer. "You fucking cunt, I know you're there! Pick up the fucking phone! Don't you fucking ignore me, I'll fucking--I'll--"

What, Tom? Hit me? Kill me? I smile bitterly and wince as the split in my lip cracks open again, filling my mouth with the coppery tang of blood. Don't pick up the phone.

"I'm sorry." His voice has gone from enraged to pleading in a matter of heartbeats, and I can almost smell the alcohol that hangs on his breath. "Please, I didn't mean it. I'd never hurt you, you know that. I love you. C'mon, just talk to me, please." Is he crying? I start to rise from the couch and push myself back down, sinking into the cushions. Don't answer.

"Please, Mark. Please. I need you. Don't do this to me. How can you do this to me? Please, I--"

Beep!

As the machine cuts him off, I realize I'm on my feet, my hand inches from the phone. I draw it back as if burned, clutching the traitorous fingers to my chest. The salt of a tear stings the cut along my cheekbone, surprising me. I hadn't even realized I was crying.