She paused,

Gazing, no expression,

smoldering, 

unfiltered cigarette

between her fingers.

"You know, the thing about love

is that it suffocates."

She lifted her head, slowly nodding

To acknowledge the sound of her wisdom.

Her eyes fixed his with resolute stare.

“Suffocates,”

he repeated, sneering, eyebrows raised,

a dare wedded to his return gaze.

“The thing about cigarettes

is that they suffocate.

Love or not,

I would rather  ...

How can I reach you?

How many birthdays

do you think you have left,

sucking that stuff into your lungs?”

“Maybe that’s what I’ll do . . .”

“What?”

He stopped cutting,

 the kitchen knife poised

over the cake.

“Leave you.”

She said it calmly.

He glared at her for seconds,

hurled the knife across the room,

Hit dangerously close to the cat,

skittered into the hall,

trail of crumbs in its wake.

Cat passed still spinning blade,

rounded bedroom doorway

en route under-bed hideaway,

calico tail wringing for balance

on polished floor.

He drew deep breath

into rage-reddened face.

“Lately, whatever I say,

you pull away.

Why is that?”

She ignored question,

 followed cat,

reappeared.

Suitcase lid bulged,

white blouse sleeve waved.

Stopped at front entrance,

turned, him to face.

Before I go out this door,

I have something to say:

I probably will quit smoking,

I intended so tonight.

But,

Mr. Perfection:

smoke or fresh air —

on my remaining birthdays

I breathe without supervision.

Have a nice life.”

BLAM!!!!!