The car door slams and with it…silence –

the deafening stillness of conversation’s end.

Tied as two instead of one from two.

 

It is the beginning of that stalemate

of back to back in unrumpled sheets.

She undresses in the bathroom.

 

Grunts, where words used to be.

Words, where dialogue used to be.

Stares where seeing used to be.

 

The carpets vacuumed a little too quickly,

the dishes stacked a little too loudly,

the radio blaring a little too obviously.

 

Four days later the icy surface cracks.

In the kitchen, his back against the wall,

with devilish grin, he loudly farts.

 

They’re laughing still.

They made love tonight.

Twice.