Aggrieved, I wait by the fire while she writes in that
Infernal journal, tapping and flipping her pen, sipping
From her teacup. "Are you not speaking to me at all?"
I don't think I have snagged her attention. I continue.
"I always know when you're sulking. All you do is read
And write. You should apologize to me, for what you said,
Earlier." "It's brought back too many memories for that."
"What do you mean?" "Scarborough this time ten years ago."
"Right. Let's talk about Scarborough, my miseries..."
I think of the myriad mortifications I suffered for her
Insistence on masculine attire, gestures, postures,
Her hair and hat and coat. The looks she got, the looks
I got for being seen with her. "Do you know what agonies
I endured being seen with you, the way you used to dress?
Everyone whispering about you behind your back
About how masculine you were. I was snubbed just
For being seen with you. At least now, you do try
To look like a lady. Back then? I heard the post-boy
Say, 'Is that a man?'" "Well, good heavens. I'm surprised
You ever bothered me at all, if that was the case." I flush,
Insist, "I love you. I always have!" She seems unconvinced.