It started on the first date, a Monday

Two cups, two lovers, one bottle

One poured the drink, the other sat-- watching

The glasses were raised and the high chime of two glasses touching played

The man began a toast

“Oh dear me,”

He spoke, his words like the toxic venom of a viper.

“Oh dear my, my heart of gold.”

A hand would gesture to the cage which within held no soul.

“What a beautiful fine day, and do I say, I love the day with you,”

His words held no meaning, like trinkets given at christmas which you don’t truly love, but you express gratitude to not seem selfish or ungrateful.

“My dear, my love, oh who I truly love, it’s a fine evening is it not?”

His hand wrapped around me, I swore his palm was covered in small spikes invisible to the eye but so very there.

“My love, why don’t you answer?”

If I could, I would scream, but your stare tightens my throat and makes me choke.

“Answer.”

You command, and I do answer, but it is not what you like.

Your hand meets the table.

My brain spins and lacks the oxygen it needs to thrive.

I run, you follow.

I get in my car.

I drive away.

I believe it’s the end.

It started on the first date, a Monday.

Now the wine pours on Friday.