Stiff! As if a pole were under his shirt.
Fingers that clench and unclench, diving into jeans pockets and out.
Teeth clacking as he tries to utter the right words.
Nothing escapes those pursed lips.
Eyes that are hooded, glowering, locked onto mine.
One arm raises, wavers in the air, and slams down to smack his side.
He doesn't need to speak.
His body declares it all.
"I've done something wrong. Something that offends you. Don't say anything," standing up, the kitchen my destination.
Water from the tap is poured into our teapot, and I turn on the gas and set the pot on the burner.
"I'm making tea," I call out towards the parlor.
Suddenly he's there, at the entrance, "You? You're boiling water? Tea? You?"
"It's the least I can do, but if it's not enough-?"
"No, No," interrupting me while I still keep my eyes averted.
"That good. Tea will be fine. Yea, all good," he states, backing away, as I feel the tension drain out of the space.
I can finally breathe.
The pot whistles, the tea bags are set into the cups, and water is poured.
As we sit and sip the warm brew, his face smooths, softens, his blue eyes shine.
Nothing said, but nothing needed.