Besotted love birds, they entered,
arms wrapped around each other.
He kept his hands on her in the library,
her body molded to his.
They cruised up and down aisles
clasped like tandem trailers, stitched together,
he could have been her shadow.
It was Darlin’ this, Honey that, and Sweetheart,
I wondered if the man knew her name.
She pulled away, he resisted.
His hand slid quick as a snake to her shoulder,
clutched her neck, compliance assured
with the steel of possession.
I did a double take, watched more closely.
“Let’s check out a movie,” the man announced.
They spoke in silent gazes.
He gave her a wordless look, frozen, she stared back.
“Were they lovers so immersed in each other
they couldn’t bear to be parted a moment?
Or was he an alpha claiming domination?
Or worse, a woman abuser.
I approached them, trying to read body language,
“Is there anything I can help you find?” I asked
and heard a mumbled, “Interferin’ Bitch.”
He turned his back abruptly,
just as quickly, she slid out of his reach.
She whispered, “Gotta’ use the restroom.”
Too late he ricocheted back, pursued his lady love
who reached the door first, closed it.
He, a guard dog, stood outside the bathroom,
I wondered if she’d ever come out when she did.
He yanked her by the arm, pulled her hard,
no whispered sweet nothings in her ear,
and escorted her outside
to the parking lot located in a field.
No place to run, she didn’t try.
Ingrid Bruck lives in Amish country in Pennsylvania, a landscape that inhabits her poetry. She’s a feminist who champions a woman’s right to live peaceably and in equality with men. Her poetry appears at www.ingridbruck.com