he wears a neon bib in a garish
orange colour, but his face is nearly
grey. he won’t meet her gaze and
flinches
when her hand touches his,
wary of the warmth.
she’s been angry, said she
wouldn’t come and he
believed her.
she couldn’t believe that.
not the call, either,
civil-spoken bomb that
exploded
in her middle-class hall onto an
ikea phone table. she cried alone and
shouted when she saw him, heartbreak private but
anger
her shield.
she blamed him out loud, herself in her head:
“why? why did you do that?”
the question is for both of them.