HIT

Daughter and I were in the lift going down, when, after a few floors, a woman got in. The woman who a few months ago got in when the lift was crowded and coughed all over us there until we got to her floor and she got out.
Today her face looked as if she’d been thumped, several times a few days ago: bruising and scabs around both eyes mostly the right.
‘Hello,’ I said.
‘You got a cold?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘I won’t get too close,’ pressing the button to the ground and as she did so turned her head towards where we stood at the back and said, ‘I know it looks bad. I fell over, it doesn’t mean I got hit in the face.’
‘Ok,’ I said.
‘Yes. I fell over...on the floor...I know it looks bad but no one hit me, no, I fell over, it’s not being hit’s done this, fell over onto my face...’
‘Ok.’
‘Yes, no one hit me.’
‘Ok.’
The lift stopped at ground floor and the doors opened. The woman was first to reach outside and we said goodbye.
‘Her face looked pretty beaten up,’ said Daughter. ‘Both sides, you notice?’
‘I did. And the amount she said it wasn’t someone hit her was obvious it was. Not that it’s acceptable mind, but I can imagine she’d irritate me enough to want to hit her.’