I could tell by her eyes.
They looked like mine, in the mirror.
She had an abusive partner, like I did.
She was my new new bus driver. I sat behind her and we talked. Every day we talked. We rarely talked about our partners. We talked about our kids, our gardens.
Sometimes, she had a bruise or black eye.
Sometimes, I did. Or, we both did.
One day, I said my husband said I was asking for it, that I liked it. She said her husband said that too. I said it wasn't true. I did everything I could to avoid it. She said, "me too."
A tear glistened in the corner of her eye.
One day, she was gone. I read in the paper she'd been killed by her husband.
I decided to leave mine before that happened to me.