Twenty Five

She loathed to breathe the fetid air,

Or drink the bitter wine,

As foul as the hold of a wicked ship

Below the water line.

Mark lay clothed next to Andrea for what seemed like an eternity while the distance between them increased with every minute. Not once did he reach out to comfort her while she wept silently beside him, still wearing the robe she'd had on when Torry forced himself into her room. Scarcely a word had been spoken into the sickening silence since Mark collapsed on the bed after throwing Torry, battered and bleeding, to the sidewalk.

Andrea listened for Mark's breathing to relax into the steady rhythm of slumber, but it did not. Torry's words had put something between them, something ugly. "She's not worth it. Ask anybody. Find yourself a new screw." Those words must have replayed over and over in his mind, as they did in Andrea's. What could the silent withdrawal mean except that Mark was reevaluating his feelings for Andrea? How could she hope to start fresh with Mark? He'd seen her at her worst. What kind of future could she have with a man who had to weigh her worthiness?

Andrea opened her eyes when Mark finally stirred. The motel room was as dark as her thoughts had been. He sat up, remaining on the edge of the bed for a few moments before rising.

"I'll try to catch a few winks in my own room before morning, Andi." "Okay," she said, lifting herself to rest on one elbow. Mark walked across the darkened motel room to the door. Andrea could barely make out his silhouette as he stood with his hand on the door knob.