She rarely felt the need to apologise.
When she did, her contrition met with
exonerating pouts, enveloping hugs,
the nipping in the bud of any grudge.
I tried apologising to her once
after one of my turns, full of Armagnac,
spinning off the comet tail of Seroxat
or some such serotonin-shooting star.
No fear. Wouldn’t budge. Got nothing.
Email after email, Interfloral
interventions, quarter-hourly texts;
she would not forgive or forget. So,
her larynx remains bruised, her dining table
smashed, her kitten’s head the wrong way round.