Discontent gnawed under his ribs like heartburn.
It seemed likely she was the worm of the problem.

He hissed sparks at her from his solar plexus
moaning about her quietness at breakfast

In search of fugacious fuel
to heat his momentary truths

he found himself spluttering
about her over-boiling of the kettle

her poor taste in underware
her overcare of household plants

her lack of confidence in the kitchen
slovenly tea cups in the bedroom

her lack of small talk for his mother
and excessive zeal as a lover.

She asked him when he was planning to go.
He asked her to lend him some dough.