The Pause Before That's Not What I Said

The wall is drywall over the cheapest

load-bearing math the landlord could find.

At eleven, I heard the whole script again—

not quite a fight. More like a rewind.

The part where the voice drops half a register.

The pause before that's not what I said—

four seconds, maybe five—doing its work

while I lay in the sublet's rented bed.

I counted it through three full runs.

There's a grease mark at head-height on the wall,

worn into the paint by whoever was here

before me. I don't know them at all.

They leaned there. I lean here. It's fine.

The third time the pause came I counted it out

and felt something I recognized.

I've held that beat. I know what it's about.

Mine is three seconds. Maybe four.

Right before I never meant it.

I've held that beat in enough rooms to know

it's the argument. I've been in it.