The Vicar's Man-o-War held the door for me, and I entered the diner. I then immediately waited to one side for him to lead us both to a booth by the window. It was breakfast time; the place was crowded, and there was only the one place to sit. Next to us was a young man eating alone; I slid into the booth facing away from him on reflex. The Vicar's Man-o-War is jealous and petty. I do what I can to avoid provocation.

He almost sat next to me, blocking me in. But then, even as he crouched onto the seat, he switched deftly to the other side. I saw from his glance that he wanted to face the door. I looked out the window when the waitress arrived. He ordered for me, as usual, and I avoided eye contact with the woman.

Even so, I could tell that she recognized our situation. The shift of her hips in the corner of my eye. The way she spoke to me when addressing both of us. She kept asking me directly things like: white or wheat, black or with cream and sugar. Each time it was he who answered and I just nodded, reading the license plates on the trucks outside.

I kept my hands on the table, in plain sight where he liked to see them.

When the food arrived, he salted and peppered it and then told me to eat. I ate; this would be our last stop before making the interstate. There would be no stopping then, no turning back.

He devoured his food like something feral, with a ravenous mania. And yet he still managed to talk, giddily and talking with his hands, gesturing with the fork and the knife. I don't know what it was he said. I just nodded and thought about further down the road.

The waitress returned to ask if everything was alright. She was just doing her job, checking in on the customer and so forth. Well, more specifically she asked:

"Can I get you folks anything else?"

He shook his head and waved her away. Undeterred, but yet still within the bounds of propriety, she asked me more pointedly:

"Is everything alright here?"

I could feel her looking me over for bruises, a black eye, needle tracks, anything - but that's not how he works. His fingers are soft flabby things, and his knuckles are tender. I was afraid to look at her; I knew I would somehow betray everything in that moment, if so.

"We're fine," he said, annoyed and final about it.

"Well, I'll just top up your cups then, and here's your check-"

She slopped the coffee into his mug and then my own, splattering it messily onto my lap.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry."

The next few seconds could have been choreographed and staged before royalty. I was hurt; the seeping liquid scalded through to my thighs and spread nastily - but truly, all I was aware of was the sudden spike of his anger. The surging rage made the hair lift on my neck. He threw down his silverware and made as though to get up. But we were in a fixed window booth; the waitress blocked his way, sputtering and apologetic.

She wiped a cloth napkin about the spill, clattering saucers and plates. People looked over to watch us.

"Oh honey, I'm sorry. You can go clean up in the back."

I shook my head. I formed words like "No" and "I'm okay" within my mouth, but she put her hand on my wrist with an iron grip that squeezed until it hurt. Like a kitten limp in the jaws of its mother, or the drowning hauled from the sea, I went along with the pulling motion and stumbled to my feet.

"Ladies room is back near the kitchen, left at the sign. You can't miss it."

I did as I was told, as I was directed, hurrying past the other patrons. We were making a scene now, he would be crazy with anger later, and I was afraid. I didn't dare look back, but I could hear them behind me with words that said one thing in shouts that said another. Another man's voiced joined them, maybe the cook, or the manager; he placated.

At the rear of the diner was a little alcove and a quick bend that led to the kitchen, past the restrooms. The sign she had mentioned wasn't near this, but I saw it off to the side. It was an EXIT sign. It was a side door out. Two steps, a push through the glass, and I could be free.

I heard him bellowing as he approached. There was no more stalling now. Soon he would be on me, dragging me; perhaps by my hair to make a point.

"The fuck you looking at," he bullied freely to someone. He was reckless and livid.

"Let's go," he announced, loud enough to shout it, "I'm coming back there." In two or three heartbeats, this moment would pass eternally. I could hear his boots.

All his bullets have eyes upon them. The dragon he rides is swift and tireless. The Vicar's Man-o-War is the last of his kind, charged with a divine geis. He is the blade that cuts; the Shadow of God on Earth. I have held him as he cried, so many times spent from rage, shuddering and pathetic. He would kill me before he let me go.