Late.

“I’ll never be happy with you.” He said. Cold, clinking words. “You’re not for me.”
I paused, scraping butter on toast. He said ‘for’ without stress.
“I kept thinking you would, in time.”
I took jam from the top shelf and poured the kettle.
“You think I’ve snapped.”
I didn’t respond.
“I know you look at them. I see your eyes flit and your motions stop. I know what you’re about.”
My eyes flicked to a glass on the bottom shelf. I wanted to pick it up and howl. I wanted to shatter it against his head, to gouge his eyes with the shards, to scream words at his crumpling frame, but I didn’t know what to say so instead I took a spoon from the jar and stirred coffee.
“If you left now I wouldn’t mind, I wouldn’t be angry.”
I’d made toast I didn’t want anymore so I put it in the bin and began folding clothes.
“I know you’re not angry.”
I seethed.
“You’re upset.”
I wanted to bludgeon his torso. I wanted to mash his intestines with a fork.
“I’m sorry.” His head fell loosely on his shoulders. “I don’t know why I said that. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.” He took a gulp of coffee, sighed gently into himself and walked out of the room. I took a pencil from the sideboard and held it between my thumb and forefinger. I considered snapping it, but instead I wrote ‘milk, cheese, apricots, fennel’ on a post-it and put another slice of bread in the toaster. 7.14. Late.