From "Sylvianna" by Keryl Raist

Chris has been acting distant and picking fights for a week; Sarah finally confronts him about it:

Chris was sitting at my table, waiting for me.  His lip was split, chin bruised, and he had the start of a black eye.  “‘The first rule of Fight Club is do not talk about Fight Club.’ You look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

“How’s Pat?”

“Good enough he’s still fighting Mike.”

“Ahhh…”  I walked from my doorway to the kitchen table and sat down in the chair next to his.
His eyes were glued to my shoulder.  “You’re really okay?”

I gently cupped his chin, avoiding the bruise extending down from his split lip, and angled his face so he was looking at my eyes.  “Asks the guy bleeding at my table.  Yes, I’m really okay.  Now tell me about you.  What’s going on?”  I realized that was too intimate of a gesture and quickly stood up, using making an ice pack as an excuse to put more space between us.
 
“Lots of bruises.”

“I can see them.  Tell me about this glorious frenzy of self-destructive bullshit you’ve been on this last week.  You’re picking fights, you’re barely eating when you show up for meals, and, until a minute ago, you weren’t talking to me.”