He is guilty of pink cheeks; over-exaggerated movements; of coffee mugs thrown against a room and a brain slowly rotting.  He is guilty of never speaking, of only staring through a clenched jaw.  He is guilty of trespassing fingers, of dangerous thumbs and hot tea splashed against a foot.  He is guilty of not asking, of belated apologies upon waking, of clothing torn from her body.  He is guilty of these spots of blood, of non-functioning hips—the result of after-entry.  He is guilty of bathtub drains clogged with vomit and books ripped from their bindings.  He is guilty of dismemberment and of providing her with an inadequate body.   He is guilty of hands rubbed raw by bleach and scrubbing.  He is guilty of not recognizing his face in a bathroom mirror or a storefront window.  He is guilty of always walking by.

She imagines his body.  An arm or leg exposed.  The neck bent at an awkward angle.  Or perhaps a protruding rib bone.  The impression of a face against a pillow.  

She slides a knife into his eye socket.  Pushes him from behind while walking down the stairs.  Takes a cushion from the couch, presses it against his nose and mouth.  Holding firmly so no air escapes.

She remembers the weight of his breath along her ear.  The way he walked with heavy steps.  His fists and the small of her back.  She thinks some things are better left unsaid.  Always remembers to kiss him goodbye before leaving for work or going to the store for a loaf of bread.