Biding Time

We sit on a scratchy picnic blanket
spread on the kitchen floor because
the rain claimed outside before
we could.
The fumes from your nail polish
sting my nose
and I lean against the cabinet
listening to you in darkness.
I open one eye,
w
atch the shining brush flick across your toe,
and interrupt your tirade
against my new hairstyle and my new schedule
and against the rain outside on the day that I picked
and the boy I’m seeing now
long enough to say,
“You don’t know everything, you know.”
It is the first time
I have opened my mouth
in years,
cobwebs heavy on my taste buds.
“I never said I did,”
comes the reply.
It is even, but you stare,
your eyes empty,
as though stunned such things
are in my head.
“I know,” I say
and close my eyes
and listen to the rain
and breathe in the haze of your nail polish.

The End

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