Cynthia fell painfully silent, flinching back at his outburst. She watched him, muted, her chest contorting with a flurry of emotions she couldn't make sense of. It was so overwhelming, so<span style="font-style: italic">painful</span>, tears pricked at her eyes. And then she bit them back, her hands shaking as she stood and went  back to the box.<br/><br/>Today wasn't suppose to be like this. Today was suppose to be the turning point, not...<br/><br/>Seeing him yell, seeing him agitated and reduced to holding his head in his hands, it frightened her. It made her want to walk forward and embrace him. For a moment, she wanted to blame the house. Instead, she pulled out the heavier stuff and poured two glasses. Her back to him, she downed hers, relishing in the fire that tore at her throat. It was the only sensation in her that made sense, that felt like her own. She refilled her own and turned, quietly sitting besides him, so their knees brushed. He'd see the glass held out to him, the strong spice drifting under his nose.<br/><br/>She didn't talk, didn't move until he took it, and then her voice broke the silent, still raw from the burn of liquor warming her stomach. "My family's lived here for two-hundred years.<span style="font-style: italic">Two-hundred.</span>" She paused, downed the third shot, clearly having no intention of leaving these conversation, or day, sober. "My mother worked in that store. Before she died. I was eight." She poured another glass.<br/><br/>"...I don't know why he said what he did, maybe he saw a picture of my mother. But I love you. I'd never..." her voice wavered. She downed the shot, speaking through a tight voice and blurry vision. "Not for that hair, god, did you see it?"