He gripped her by the neck and pushed her back into the wall, holding her face up with a single palm. She gaped into his eyes; a nervous smile ran across her face and a chuckle landed in it’s place. She knows it would not go any further, presumably.
He’s really upset this time she thought to herself while trying to maintain a sense of composure and calm in the hopes that it would somehow rub off on him in this moment.
The oddity of it all is that under extreme stress and pressure she can feel so internally at ease. A paradox, indeed. It’s almost as if a symbiosis is borne, formulating a harmony with the way she relates to the world. An interconnection like constellations within the night sky. As the instability and turmoil exceedingly heighten, peace and calm burrows a nest within her innards. Quite the defense mechanism her psyche has concocted for itself. A mirage. Something to marvel. Where most would fracture and pop, she remained collected, composed and poised. A true lady; reticent and demure.
He tightened his grip on her throat and pushed her into the wall even further, unequivocally sending his message. She momentarily gasped for breath and with trepidation, placed her small hands over his firm grip and gently began to loosen his clamp-like clutch on her collar. His hands would let go but his glare did not.
The vitriol in his eyes spoke for his malevolence. His antipathy continued as she smoothed herself over with her hands, as if to fix anything out of place. The doting wife that she is. She can manipulate the physical but not the emotional. External acquiescence masks internal bedlam; a master architect of semblance and illusion (it is her namesake after all). The matron is brimming with red herrings.