A Simple Act of Violence [antikvár]

She stands in the kitchen, and for a moment she holds her breath.A little after five in the afternoon. Already dark outside, and though she can remember standing in the same spot a thousand times before - ahead of her the sink, to her right the counter-top, to her left the doorway to the hall - there is something different.Extraordinarily so.Air is the same, but seems harder to breathe. Light above her the same, but somehow harsh and invasive. Even her skin, something never noticed, appears to feel tighter. Her scalp itches as she starts to sweat, she feels the pressure of her clothes, the weight of her arms, the tension created by the rings on her fingers and the watch on her wrist; feels her underwear, her shoes, her necklace, her blouse.This is it, she thinks.My name is Catherine. I am forty-nine years old, and this isit.Fuck.Moves to the right. Reaches out her hand and touches the cool surface of the sink-edge. She grips it and, using it as leverage, turns slowly towards the door.She wonders whether he's inside the house already.She wonders if she should stand still and wait, or if she should move.She wonders what he expects her to do.It is quite somé time before she makes a decision, and when she makes that decision she goes with it.Walks right across the kitchen and into the front room of the house - businesslike, straightforward; takes a DVD from the bookcase against the wall and, with the remote in her hand, she opens the player, puts the disc inside, closes