Eleanor entered the Tate first thing in the morning, thinking only of her son and the chaos of the previous night. She rode the escalators up to the Mark Rothko exhibit. Sitting on a bench, she sucked an orange lozenge, while she took in the vast purple-red canvas. She pictured her son driving away with a loose bag of clothes erupting on the back seat. Her breath had fluttered in her chest, like a dragonfly with transparent wings. 

The paintings appeared like bruises fading in and out in their intensity. Eleanor had worn long sleeves for years and made it her job to inhale her husband’s fits of anger. 

She listened for sirens and wondered whether the police would arrive and twist her arms behind her back, spit her rights, and push her into their car. She might confess the whole thing or completely clam up; she’d had years of keeping quiet. Now she bought time for her son zipping down the M1. She had watched him last night throwing punches at his lobster-faced father. She watched her tormentor slip down the wall and slump against the skirting board, where his pink tongue lolled like an exhibit.