She knew she loved him from the beginning. He was so good looking. So kind. He made her laugh. He gave her beautiful clothes to wear.
She had known him a week when she went with him to the city. There was nothing but hunger and lethargy to keep her at home.
He found her savings sewn into the lining of her purse and he hit her a few times which was to be expected, but he took all her money and gave her nothing. He pushed her into the street and slammed the door on her. And she stood in the cold wind in her short skirt and tank top and she did not speak the language. She did what was expected and serviced furtive men in their cars and against walls. As dawn broke he found her and dragged her into the apartment and beat her again when he counted the money. He gave her pills to take and pushed her into the bathroom.
She was so tired.
It took months to save the bus fare home. All she dared hold back each night was a single bill folded flat between her gum and cheek.
It wasn't hard to leave him. Perhaps he wanted her to go. She pitied him. He had so little. Wanted so much. All she wanted was a cup of tea and a cigarette at her mother's kitchen table.
But on the journey home with her forehead resting on the cool bus window, she thought about the man she first fell in love with. The way he made life seem worth living.
So she drank a cup of tea and smoked a cigarette at her mother's kitchen table, then she returned to the city to look for him.