I have never fought for my life harder than when he held my throat in his arms. I clawed at his vicegrip, trying to rip open his clamp around my neck, but it was made of iron. As the walls closed in, my vision blurred from the pressure; my eyes bulged out of their sockets. I felt his breath at the back of my head. It was warm and shook with each inhale, and with it a stream of water trailed down to dampen my hair. There was nothing within reach, and my legs lost any strength they had to writhe against his hold. I knew I was about it die. When he unhinged his elbow, I pushed him across the room and bellowed, “What the fuck!”

He stood in his towering height just a foot shorter than my closet door, the display of ziploc-ed condoms laying on the floor beside him. Each bag was labeled with a name and date. His fists clenched and released. The crease of the veins on his arms mimicked the trails of his tears. He reminded me of an angry school boy out in the school yard. The mop of blond curls atop his head had flared into a tuft amidst our struggle. After a moment, he lifted his eyes from the floor and met mine, those still aquamarines stained with saltwater. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what came over me.”