"You hungry," Eric asks Judith, ignoring the narrowed eyes of skepticism glued to his emotionless face.

"What're you doing here?" He nudges his plate in front of her and she glances at the steaming food taunting her. "I'm not hungry."

"Sure you're not," he sarcastically remarks while nodding his head in the same manner. "You can have it. It wasn't what I asked for and I'm afraid to send it back."

He watches her lift a dime-sized amount of mashed potatoes into her mouth and her stomach grumbles as she begins to salivate.

"There," she says after swallowing the small portion. She returns the fork to the plate and folds her arms, her back against the window. "Happy?"

"I can dig it." A smile appears on his face as he raises his mug. He hides his elation against the cup and takes a sip of the black beverage.

"Why're you here," she asks again. As he lowers his drink, he emits a long, weary sigh.

"If you must know, I just got off work and I decided to come here, as I usually do, and get myself dinner before I head home." Eric looks at her tired eyes, then her attire. He thrusts his chin upward, motioning toward her hospital gown. "What're you doing here looking like a runaway mental case."

"I found out I was being sent to Red Cave, so I ran from the hospital," she confesses, and his expression doesn't change.

"Here's your cup of water." They watch Wanda sit a Coca-Cola glass on the table, her dark brown eyes narrowed and trained on Judith. Her chestnut hair is styled in a large pompadour with the ends curled outward. "Can I get you anything else?"

Eric glances at Judith and when she shakes her head, he returns his attention to the waitress and says with a smile, "No, we're fine on food. Could I get the check, please?"

"Sure thing, honey." She flashes him a smile that quickly turns to a grimace when she looks at Judy. They watch her saunter to the bar, passing three men out of the seven that once sat there.

"You know she's a racist, right," Judith asks in a low voice as the woman steps behind the counter. Eric clasps his hands on the table, shielding his mug between his forearms and he turns his head to her.

"You sure love to jump to conclusions. It's a wonder your legs still work." He lets out a dry chuckle as he shakes his head at his steaming coffee. "She's not a racist, just overworked and underpaid. Every night people are coming in to dine-and-dash and it comes out of her paycheck, so excuse her if she gets a little worked up."

Judith squints at him as he lifts his mug to his mouth, sipping his drink while staring at the white woman behind the counter. She notices the softness in his gaze similar to his tone as he defends her.

"You got eyes for her?" She sits upright and grins at him with her top row of teeth.

They hardly spoke to each other – sometimes she wouldn't notice him with Jerome – but the interaction they had at the Berks' house and their current one provides her with a sense of familiarity.

He snickers at her question and lowers his head. In a small voice, he answers, "Uh, no. I'm actually seeing this black girl on campus. I'm just a nice person."

"Well, I'm happy for you." Judith leans against the window again and during the silence, she stares at the few cars speeding down the road lined with streetlights. Her mind shifts to Jerome, so she takes a deep breath, licks her lips, and asks, "Did he tell you?"

"Did who tell me what?" She rolls her eyes onto him, showing her seriousness in her stare but his confusion remains.

"Did Jerome tell you why I'm in the hospital?" He shakes his head, and she scoffs. Wanda walks toward them with a checkbook in one hand and a half-empty pitcher of water in the other. "Really? I find that hard to believe because Mary was quick to share my business."

"Here you go, honey." Wanda sits the black checkbook in front of him while flashing her pearly whites. Judith looks her up and down before returning her attention to Eric as he grins at the cheerful waitress. "You two have a lovely night."

Again, she grimaces at Judith and then departs from their booth.

What's her problem?

"Listen, we're not Mary. In fact, I was on cloud nine when she stopped kicking it with us," he confesses while reaching into the right pocket of his jeans. His dingy white shirt barely clings to his sweat-coated body, evidence of his strenuous labor at the Butter Ball factory. "We don't do that gossiping shit and when you come around, it's whatever. You're the only one with a problem."

"Tell that to your little Mexican friend who constantly feels the need to pick on me. Him and the Muslim one," Judith argues, her annoyance-laced voice growing shrill. He rolls his hazel eyes as he sits a slightly creased ten-dollar bill on the check.

"Jesus Christ, I thought we were all adults here," he groans. He raises his mug to his mouth, taking a final sip. "Aren't you, like, eighteen? Why're you acting so juvenile?"

"I'm nineteen and I don't see what's juvenile about me being offended that your immature friends constantly call me Goose." Eric sighs as he scoots out of the booth. She watches him straighten his collar with the guide of his reflection in the window.

"Look, those cats do what they want and yes, I know they can be some jive-ass fools. I've had my fair share of arguments with them." He drops his arms, looks at her, and sternly says, "But you gotta learn to ignore them. They say stupid shit because that's how they are. I keep to myself because that's who I am."

"So that's it? You and Jerome just let them do whatever?" Tucking his hands in his side pockets, he shrugs with his lower lip pouted nonchalantly.

"They're grown men. What should we do, beat them into silence?" Judith rolls her eyes onto the window. "Every group of friends has at least one asshole and it just so happens that we have two."

"You're both pathetic." She shakes her head, and he folds his arms while sighing. "If I were y'all, I would –"

"You wouldn't do shit but sit back and cry," he interrupts her, and she whips her head to him. "I mean, come on, your friend was fucking your boyfriend behind your back, and I heard you defended them both at Justin's party. That doesn't sound very Street Fighter of you, to me."

"You know what? Fuck you." He nods with his lips pressed in a straight line. As if he's worried she'll steal the money, he takes the bill and the cash off the table. "What Mary did was disgusting, I know, but the fact that the four of you kept it from me is worse. I never said anything about it either. In fact, I forgave y'all."

"Well, aren't you Saint Judith." She scoffs, her eyes narrowed as she looks him up and down. Now the sight of him makes her angrier than she already is. She swears at him again and he says in the same low voice, "That mouth of yours is probably why you're sitting here alone. I guess your boyfriend didn't hit you hard enough to give you manners."

She leaps out of the booth and stands to him, ignoring the significant height difference. Eric's almost a foot taller than her, but the murderous stare she's giving him prevents her from feeling small.

Though her mind is as quiet as the current night, she knows what she wants to say.

Fuck you.

Don't speak on me and David.

Maybe I outta slap some manners into you.

They all feel perfect to her, but nothing exits her quivering lips. Judith quickly darts her eyes onto her reflection as they brim with tears she never expected to appear. She stares at her once plump, scarless body that now bears a long story of abuse from her ex and herself.

Lack of sleep is evident in her face along with the sedatives she'd forced herself to resist. Scars from scratching her rash-stained arms and the lack of motivation to keep living in her stare.

Without a word, Eric turns away from her and she watches him stroll toward the counter. He hands the waitress the billfold and money before continuing to the exit. Judith glances around the room. Only two people notice her – dark-haired truckers housing coffee and beers – but she feels exposed.

***

Judith steps into David's sandy yellow Impala, the smell of booze and marijuana pulling her in. He's dressed in his usual: a turtleneck and jeans, and he's resting his elbow on the windowsill with his chin on his knuckles.

When she shuts the door, he turns his head to her, and she notices the empty expression she misinterprets as bitterness.

"I'm sorry for calling you this late. I just – I really need someone." The skin between her brows creases and she squeezes her lips inward. He rolls his eyes onto the neon light in the diner window as a tear slides down her cheek.

"I'll drive us somewhere private. Go ahead and tell me what's going on," he monotonously instructs her. She sniffles, he jerks the gearshift into drive, then veers out of the parking lot and into the desolate road.

"I don't wanna talk." He slams his foot on the brake pedal, then looks at her.

"Then what the hell am I doing out here, Jude?" She stares at his lips, admiring his cupid's bow and peach-colored tone.

Without thinking, she leans in and presses her lips to his. Their mouths emit a smooch sound that makes her stomach turn, and he presses her chest with one hand.

She slams her palms over her mouth when he rejects her advances, mumbling apologetically.

"What's wrong with you?" He stares at her in revulsion, his lips agape. Judith slowly lowers her arms and stares at him, her mind blank.

She's grown used to him always being ready for her to take him back despite their fights, but the tone he bears, and the bone-chilling expression he has, tell her that he's moving on.

"I think me and Jerome broke up." A smile appears on his face as he turns to his reflection in his window. "Well, we weren't dating yet, but I think – I guess I just can't be with someone whose friends are insolent."

He scoffs incredulously and licks his grinning lips. "So now you're crawling back to me?"

"Does it look like I'm on my hands and knees?" David scans her from her afro to her breasts with a smirk drawn on his face.

"No, but I'll give it a few minutes and we'll see if you're up for that." She narrows her eyes at him, waiting for him to chuckle to break the growing tension. When he doesn't, she scoffs as she shakes her head.

"You're a pig. Forget I called you." Judith turns to her door with her fingers around the handle and David quickly presses the lock mechanism.

"It's almost midnight, Jude. You called me out here to get you, kissing me and leading me on." He trails off and she doesn't take her eyes off her window.

She remembers when he locked her in the car with him, ready to assault her and only stopping when an officer intervened. All the moments of him abusing her – including those she'd suppressed – resurface and she's left shuddering at her reflection.

"Judy," he whispers in a sing-song manner, and when she doesn't look at him, he sits his hand on the back of her neck. She feels her heart skip a beat and her throat constrict, reminding her of what it felt like to be choked by him.

"Don't touch me," she yells as she jerks away from him, her powerful voice bouncing off the windows. They glare at each other, her chest and shoulders rising and falling. "You have a girlfriend, and you know what, I'll respect your stupid fucking relationship. Just don't touch me."

Without breaking eye contact, he lowers his hands to his belt, and she watches his fingers unfasten the leather from the metal bracket. His buckle rattles as he wrestles with it and she shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes.

"David – no," she struggles to say, but despite her quivering voice, he doesn't stop. Finally, he loosens it and unfastens his button in the same beat.

"If you scream or fight me, it'll be worse for you, Jude." He lowers his zipper menacingly slow and a tear cascades down her cheek, stopping at her chin.

***

Judith's staring at the ceiling, listening to the birds performing their early morning symphony of endless chirps. David's laying on her body, his weight pinning her to his damp and sticky backseat, and his face resting in the crook of her neck.

Her lips are dry, her stomach grumbles for the fourth time, and the top of her head shoots throbbing pain from repeatedly hitting the door behind the driver's seat.

She reaches her left arm toward the driver's headrest, shaking with exhaustion and dehydration. As she squeezes the cool leather material, her other hand grips the top of the back seat.

Judith slides upward against the door, gritting her teeth as she watches his head drop onto her lap. When she's upright, she glances over her shoulder and notices that they're surrounded by trees. She remembers him veering into a park and her sunken eyes land on a wooden sign – a map of the hiking trail and everything surrounding it.

I gotta get help.

Judith darts her attention onto the passenger seat, spotting her undergarments and hospital gown.

Looking around again, she spots a grey-haired black man and woman who look around her parents' ages. They're jogging in matching grey soccer shorts and tank tops that accentuate their toned bodies, reminding her of a life she wishes she could have with Jerome.

As he stops in front of a drinking fountain near a bench, his sweaty wife slows near him with her hands on her hips. Judith takes a deep breath, mentally preparing herself to ask the strangers for help.