The argument was settled when I put my hand through the
wall.
She looked back and forth between my fist, still plunged
though the wall beside her head, down to the plaster dust as it settled on her
shoulder, and then to my face. The mix of anger and fear on her face was
matched by my own face, which was cycling through anger, satisfaction and,
becoming more and more dominant as the seconds passed, pain.
She tried to form a sentence, but after a few moments she
sighed, and lowered her gaze.
“Fine, I’ll call a professional builder tomorrow.”
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