He bristles with all the things he wants to say to her. She can feel the words bursting against his chest, travelling up his throat, stopping in his mouth. His whole body strains with the weight of his unspoken words, as he fiddles his fingers together, touches his hat, taps the shining bar top, strokes the handle of his mug.
I don’t want to leave, she thinks. And yet, if he speaks, then he’s going to make me.
Ach, just let him bristle, she thinks. I don’t have to hear it. Is it too much to ask, to sit here, in silence, alone, and never hear those same bloody words again?