Tension

Stepping through, the cool evening breeze blows through your shorts

And up the front of your Abercrombie tee shirt. 

Twenty yards ahead he is standing in front of his black Saab 9s. 

His jaw tense, and his lips are pressed

 Into a thin line no bigger than a pen mark. 

The muscles in his forearm strain from his clenched fists.

 Mustering the courage to look into his eyes, they are glazed over with tears. 

The only word you can force out is sorry,

And without a word he turns away,

Unclenches his fists, and walks to the driver’s side door.