Nimble fingers impatiently drum
at the chapped, chestnut tabletop
centralized within our echo chamber of a dining room,
all but filling otherwise reticent space
with the nerve-racking pitter-patter of
her dissatisfaction.

Uncomfortably, I settle into my place
across from seething bitterness
and await an inescapable brigade of reminders
about how I never listen, or how
I always project my issues
onto her.

Excruciating minutes pass, impregnated by the sickening
rhythm of her droning digits.
Guilty desperation strikes
and I commit an awkward, uncalculated hand to
bridge the divide between us.
For a moment, our world slows. Her face twists into a convoluted scowl
while she scours my sacrifice.

“Where’s your ring?”

I feel the color drain from my face as I choke
on empty apologies. Spiteful tears roll down stained cheeks
and before I have a chance to scramble into composure, sharp
heels clamber from tile, to hardwood, to carpet. The front door
thunders into its frame and
I am left alone,
accompanied only by cheap ceramic
and a wilted, sterile rose.