V: Caught

It's the differences that make
a marriage. She balances the family
accounts by rounding off to the nearest
thousand whereas he has attacks of
socialized anxiety at anything
over the number 99. He has learned
to hold his tongue about the cozy
detritus of the bourgeois household
although he still twitches when it
gets above his ankles. She straightens
up only for guests. After more than
twenty years he has learned to
assert himself with humour and
then segue into affection and
interesting sex. She can dissolve
into receptive laughter and lose
none of her strength. They are
like dogs so used to the yank
of the leash that when the collar
snaps instead of dashing off they
bounce anxiously, eager to feel
the bond again. Love is indeed
a prison, an asylum where
mad men and women sing and
dance in chains.