23
JULIA
Julia scratched at herself the entire way home from the party. Her nails digging into her arms, her neck, as Charlie drove with the bleary concentration of someone who knows he’s a little bit drunk. Occasionally he sang, the radio set to the hair metal Julia thought resembled cats being strangled, but she didn’t complain. She continued to scratch and press and abrade long after it stopped feeling good, finally ceasing when she felt the thin damp of blood, upon which she switched to pulling on her coat. By the time they arrived home, she had ruined the lining of her new Max Mara.
The next morning, Julia stretched and saw the dried blood on her arm. Charlie yawned and began to stir, and she quietly rose and went to the bathroom. Locking the door just in case, because she didn’t w
