Once, I met a man, let’s call him Rudy, who I had heard people speak badly of. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, and I was kind when I to him when he was giving me a ride. We drove together for about an hour. I laughed with him.
Months pass. My (now ex) boyfriend spoke of something awful that this person did. It is so bad and violent that I would rather not repeat what it is. I grew livid. “I was nice to that man!” I thought, seething, as I punched the kitchen floor over and over.
Streaks of my blood appeared on the kitchen floor, but I cleaned them up right away. I should have left them there, but I was thinking only of my (now ex) boyfriend when I did this. It was his kitchen floor.
Things We Forget 
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