A short piece of writing inspired by seeing @cgwarex's Day #75 It's Been A While Since.
The car coughs, once, as if trying to get their attention.
He hasn't moved yet, still lingering by the passenger side as if holding that space was an invitation enough.
"No." She hasn't moved yet, her lunge in that chair a thing part made from obstinance and part from the lean, predatory crouch of anger. He only loved her angry, she often thought: he was sweetest on her when he was frustrated, gone dog mad with the fury of needing someone else in his life. Like the stub of a pitbull tail were his moods, short and frantic and swinging forth from niceness and easy lolling smiles and the shrug of affections before swanging into plain quick temper that she wasn't fast enough, attentive enough, good enough, feed me feed me feed me girl. Girl only need get bit a time or two before she stopped running with dogs, she thought, and her thighs tense, ready to move.
"Come on back, Charlene," he says, sounding tired, like he's run to ground. She's a lynx there, the crop of her hair all jut up about her ears, and he feels a little much like a thing batted around, half-dead. They argue too much, says his momma, and his momma's right: he got himself a fire and she's the set of the eyes that glint just outside it, watching in. He's leaving the meat of himself out in the open for her, try to lure her in, and she just always, always, out of reach. Sometimes she darts in and takes a swipe at it before retreating, and how's a man supposed to tame a creature like that and get it to settle down? There ain't nothing in the night that howl like that wild, and it sets his heart a racing even as the cold sweat of fear go down his back. Love ain't a thing to fall asleep to without one eye open, lest you waiting to get bit.
And he got bit, he rabid, he frothing at the thought of her. And she sits, watching that set of shoulders foam and fume, and neither of them know how to turn this night to day.