I’m okay, fine
she whispers without eye contact
I’ve got it handled
Don’t worry
He misses the hollowness of her words
overlooks her subtle cues—
her Woman Speak
She tucks her feet onto the couch,
pulls herself into a tight ball under a red throw
stares at the television without seeing
sighing deeply
Oblivious, he flips the channel
to his station
assuming—
all’s right
content to listen to her words
instead of her tone of voice
Her annoyance and sadness battle across her features
surreptitiously, she wipes her silent tears
waits for him to notice her heaviness
His attention rivets on the game
its motion mesmerizes him
takes him away and isolates her
She grabs hold of anger over sorrow
indignation throws her off the couch
propels her into their bedroom
fuels the door slam
He sits with bewilderment
lost
Cautiously, he approaches the closed door
tentatively tapping
Can I do something?
No. I’m okay, fine
I’ve got it handled
Don’t worry
He opens the door anyway
pulls her into his arms
In tenderness, he wipes the tears from her face
We’ll handle it
he soothes and reassures with understanding
Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
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