The beginning was a little argument.

Dishes,

dog walks,

drawers left open.

He said....she said....

the banter becoming personal and wordy,

the argument growing and spiraling and bigger

than either intended

Bare teethed and ugly,

ancient hurts

old grudges.

She remembered him yelling

He saw her tears and drama.

Both shut down,

closed up,

went upstairs and

feigned sleep.

2 a.m. she woke clutching the left mattress edge,

his back presented to her,

and a wide expanse of sheets and covers,

a wall built between them

made of all the heavy words spoken and

mortared with their anger .

In the distance, louder in the black quiet of night,

the train whistle,

the warning,

the quick thought of escape.

Her dream of somewhere else,

a fantasy,

a life away.

But she rolled over, reached out, spooned against him

and took down the wall and

built a bridge with an arm draped across him.

He found her hand and laced their fingers, cementing the bridge.

The train moved on,

the lonely whistle a memory,

and there was sleep

and there was forgiveness

and there were no more thoughts of escape

on either side of the bed.