Transitory

She’d been roaring a long rant then she rambled on.
He snarled stubbornly and barely stopped
himself from strangling her.

Silence
in the middle
of the street.

He saw the tears in her eyes
as she saw his face reddened.
The afternoon wind blew,
Shh . . .
He hesitantly,
slowly held her hand.
She enclosed her arms
around him,
leaned on his chest
and listened.
She withdrew a little,
looked at his
downcast blue eyes,
looking for that
missing memory
of why they were together.
She found themselves
kissing, believing
the mildness
might make
that middle
moment
linger.

As they walked,
she asked,
“First, your—” Honk!
“Then, my—” Honk!
“What else would come
between us?”
He said nothing,
and tightly squeezed
her hand,
while she took
a sidelong glance
of him,
secretly
giving out
a warm smile.

“I’m almost home,”
she cautioned.
She seized her hand from him,
hurriedly hid it in her pocket.

From the hardening of his jaw,
her eyes shut wishing she wouldn’t witness.
Soon mouths were to open the next relentless obstreperous brawl.