storm in a teacup

“There’s dirt on your boots.”

His eyes hardened, brows furrowed.

“The guys aren’t even wearing suits.”

I poked at rage already burrowed.

“I go out however I want.”

That much was true.

Every denied request was a taunt.

Another way to say fuck you.

“Please. It’s respectful.”

He jammed a ratty cap on his head.

I thought he was accidentally neglectful.

Marry him or leave him for dead?

“Your church is snobby.”

He crossed his arms over his chest.

Was he difficult as a hobby?

Maybe patience was best?

“It’s fine. I’ll fix it.”

I scrubbed the boots with a damp rag.

Humiliation for love’s sake was my habit.

I felt my shoulders sag.

“See? It’s not even a big deal.”

I kissed his temple.

Romance isn’t real.

Marriage isn’t simple.

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