Fair warning, this is a rough cut and yet to be oracle approved
Eve had chosen the bar where they had first met, nice and quiet as the owners had gone bust and closed up, her husband in his five-eight power house glory had thought they were going to make up, talk about how he felt so guilty for hitting her. When he hit her again and tore her dress however the ‘other man’, John, had burst in from nowhere and laid into him, the knight in shining armour now frantic as the felled, soon to be ex-husband, crumpled to the floor.
The torn dress no longer had much integrity as Eve retreated to a bar stool, too stunned to hold her posture as she leant upon the dusty bar, the bloody bruises on her face would take ages to heal, the luxurious silky hair she worked so hard to maintain had a chunk missing, at least the dead weight on the floor had a clump of it in his giant paw to convince the police that John was defending Eve’s honour and with her injuries the jury would lap up the ‘victim’ act.
“Are you ok, does it hurt” John looked to the victim, Eve’s tearful eyes calming his tempest like nerves “it’s going to be ok, he’s going to be out of it for a while” but something was off as a perfectly steady arm coolly wiped away the tears, seemingly un-phased “Damn that hurt, I forgot he use to be a boxer” unexpected first words to say the least “must get photos before the medics clean me up” such a callous after thought completely shattering John’s false calm.
Eve knew the guilt should be worse; maybe normal people had some sort of extra ‘remorse gland’ or something that made it feel more relevant, but she was a freak of nature from the get go. Even as a child the sight of people fighting, her father the enforcer beating the living shit out of junkies and pimps, made her laugh and giggle and she never even considered having a problem taking things from those who let themselves be taken as fools either.
Eve’s blank expression was the opposite to John’s stare of petrified horror and raw shock, the total desolation of your sense of reality would do that, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to fake that sense of caring “Fuck, fuck, I just.. he was..” panic exhaustively obvious in John’s painfully high-pitched screams “don’t smile, why are you smiling” he screamed, confused by how his traumatized form standing over an unconscious man, a man she claimed was the guilty party, made her happy.
The pathetic excuse of a man in front of Eve was transfixed by the blood on his fists, she considered him less worth than the blood stains on her new heels, a perfectly good eighty pounds ruined “I would have expected you to be on the floor, but that’s my marriage dealt with at least, so it worked out” a comically surprised twang evident “and after all these weeks I’ve known you, I can finally call you’re a real man” the acidic remark hitting John’s already fragile state like a sledge-hammer.
It wasn’t a total lie, the sack of shit on the floor had been a lousy husband and getting him to hit her in the first place had taken a small ice age, if his divorce lawyer hadn’t got evidence of the affair with John Eve could have stuck to the plan and claimed he was insanely paranoid. But in the end it seemed events had a way of playing out, that sack of shit would still lose everything in the divorce, even his dignity.