A too familiar voice then spoke behind my head.
“So you’re the one who’s instigated this alarm?”
His domineering words induced foreboding dread:
“Don’t try to get away, I’ll break your wrist.”
Einion. My life’s persistent nagging rash,
insidious recurring itching irritant,
that can’t be cured no matter how I scrub and wash.
I need a nitwit-cide emollient!
I tried to squirm away, he gave my arm a twist.
In pain, I gasped, “Don’t play the hero, let me be.”
My creaking shoulder warned of dislocation risk.
“Calm down,” he said. “Quit trying to break loose.”
Her flight arrested, Aeronwy came down the block.
He saw her and his grip grew tight; in consternation
I yelped. He pulled my arm into a hammerlock.
She stopped and held her hands in supplication.
“I know that your and Dilys’s relationship
is fueled by testosterone and rivalry,
but really, Einion.” She put one hand on hip.
“From you I beg a bit more chivalry.”
Her voice was light, her stance provocative and foxy,
her slightly pouting mouth and arching eyebrow flirty.
I’ll tell you that receiving such a thing by proxy?
It felt uncomfortable, a little dirty.
I’m pretty sure she meant it mostly as a ruse
to hypnotize that thunderous thickheaded twit,
to quell his ire and quench his anger’s sparking fuse.
But still my shoulder felt like it would split.
He blurted, “Aeronwy? Why are you with this chump?”
Her hands on hips, she sternly said, “Don’t be an ass.”
I tried to turn. To me he said, “You want a whack?”
“We shop,” she said, “at Marisand’s for class…”
She trailed off, looked hard at him in dawning panic.
“But wait,” she whispered. “Why the gray and purple raiment?”
She paled as if he’d transformed to a thing satanic
and wailed, “You joined Patrolman’s regiment?”