D.S. Maolalai

After the argument

she went back
banging through cabinets,
punchdrunk with rhetoric
loudly making food,
while he stayed by the window
and didn't say anything
at all. the fight

had been one of those quiet ones,
just words (always,
their fights were
words) tossed out
in level tones,
and brought on
by someone seizing
on something someone said,
though neither could agree
who had said what
to spark things
or when the conversation
had turned cats at night.

and he sat quietly
and smoked
and she came out of the kitchen
with tea
and toast and eggs. and she sat chewing
on the sofa
while he sat by the window
and smoked. the bottle on the table
had a little left over
and he made a point
of pouring more
in hers than his
as if to make a peace offering
and shame her
by how he was selfless in all things. outside,

the night was calm
and muted
with rain on the pavement
done falling
and cold, and inside
the water
was cold too, though other things
of course
still simmered.

The diplomat.

she asks me
have I ever
considered cheating.

I say
I've never
had the opportunity.