She would tell herself later that it had not been her original intent to hit him on the head with the frying pan. Regardless of intent this is exactly what she did. He dropped to the floor, momentarily stunned by the blow.
“Oh my God! I’m so sorry,” she sobbed, kneeling beside him, the frying pan clattering to the floor, placing her hand on his shoulder to comfort him. “I’m so sorry, Johnny.”
“Get your hands off me!” he shouted, jerking back instinctively at her touch. A bit wobbly he got back to his feet, looking down at her.
“You call me crazy?” she retorted, back on her feet now. Coming forward now, shoving him backwards into the wall. “You fucking son of a bitch!”
“Look at you! What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“What the fuck is wrong with me? It’s always me, isn’t it? Have you ever thought that what’s wrong with me is you? You fucker!”
His fists clenched in anger. He stood there for a moment, silent.
“Ain’t got nothing to say? Because you know I’m right! My God, I wish I had never met you.” The tears were streaming again, and she turned away from him, unable to look at his face a moment longer. His fists unclenched, he stepped forward, put a comforting hand on her shoulder.
“Cindy, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t you fucking touch me!” Her arms shot upwards, pushing his hand off of her. She turned again, fire in her eyes. “Don’t you ever touch me again! I hate you! I fucking hate you!”
She dropped to her knees on the floor, burying her face in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably. He knelt beside her, though keeping his distance so as not to upset her again.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked, pleading in his voice.
“If you really loved me, you would know the answer to that. But you don’t love me, do you? You never really loved me. Nobody ever really loved me.”
“Cindy, I love you more than words can say, more than – ”
“Just shut up. Shut up, you fucking liar. Even if you did love me, why should I ever love you? Look at you, a fucking weak, pathetic little turd. My god, what’s wrong with me that I would ever love a thing like you? You’re not a man. You’re not anything.”
The anger was building inside him. “I’m not a man, huh?” he asked, his voice rising as he spoke. Without thinking his hands grasped the frying pan lying on the floor. He wasn’t sure what he meant to do with it.
“You going to hit me with that? Huh? Go ahead! That’s what men do, right? Hit poor, defenseless women to make up for their own feelings of insecurity? Right? RIGHT?”
He fumed. In that moment, he wanted to hit her. He had never felt so angry in all of his life. But he couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t. In his anger he lifted the frying pan and tossed it through the window, glass shattering across the kitchen and the yard outside.
“What the hell is wrong with you? You know what? I don’t even care. Get out! Get the fuck out!”
He opened his mouth as if to say something, then stopped. Without a word he turned, walked down the hall and burst through the door like a frying pan through a window out into the cold, dark night.