The Fight

She slapped him in the face really hard. The follow through broke his heart. They had never fought like this, and both of them were surprised, and devastated. Never had heat wrapped itself around them in this kind of way, this harsh, brutal Siberian storm. He looked at her and could tell the slap came out of a distant place within her he had never seen. It was difficult to say the least to see her this way, but a strange inkling inside him towards amazement took over. How honest was this, he thought? How unbelievably fucking honest is this? And honesty had always been his bedside table, it was even his major in college. He saw her face turn back again into the love he knew, the girl he spent every second of every day protecting. The blood rushed away like demons from the handprint on his face, and her soft, beautiful hand was clearly marked there now, in white. He touched the hurt, and as he did he saw her face melt into regret. She was realizing two things: she had just really hurt her lover, and she had just really hurt herself. He beamed his headlight eyes into hers, and tried to show her that it wasn't her fault. It was both of them, caught up in dangerous, juvenile waters, letting nothing become something. She began to cry from the hurt, and he realized hers was much worse than his. The blood would come back to his face, but the regret would probably never leave her heart. He worshipped the honest, sad, forceful girl in front of him in that moment, loved her more than ever before. She was his angel, and she had fallen out of her own sky for just a moment. He grabbed the hand that had just slapped him, kissed every fingertip, and smiled with his eyes. It took her a moment to accept his gesture, but she did. She closed her eyes, leaned her head against his neck, and exhaled.