Late, once more.
My feet stomp across the pavement.
Smoke rises from the cigarette,
as if punctuating my frustration.

Comprehending,
my head begins to hurt.
I ache.
Ache with the knowledge that
your fragrance is intermingled with hers upon your arrival.
A smell that emphasizes my bitterness.
Utter disapproval.

Without a word,
I know.
I knew.
You would be late,
once more.