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.