A verdict, he sought.

They sat in silence on the drive back to her flat. He drove slowly to lengthen the journey. He wasn't in a hurry. He felt she needed a bit more time to properly structure her apology after screaming at him in front of the waitress.

Earlier on, she'd been dillydallying:"...boiled or fried, boiled or fried..." she had repeated to herself for what to him seemed like a thousand times. Impatiently, he'd turned to the waitress and suggested "grilled" on her behalf. He knew she would hate that, but he hadn’t expected the tongue-lashing… especially not in front of the waitress.

“It’s not you, it’s me...” she started.

“What?” he gasped.

“I’m just saying, I don’t think there’s much more left in... this. Or what do you think?” she inquired.

“I think you couldn’t be less imaginative if your life depended on it,” he revealed.

“There you go; I just can’t get through to you,” she sighed.

Silent, he fell.

 “God! Why do you have to drive so stupidly?” She criticized.

“Me?” he puzzled.

“That was never my fault,” he parried.

“It’s never your fault; nothings ever your fault,” she accused.

“Look at him cutting everyone off; he’s the one driving like a lunatic,” he protested.

 “You’re not always right you know,” she updated.

“But...” he started.

“I mean, nobody is right all the time. You also get it wrong,” she insisted.

“Like now?” he checked.

“There really is no talking to you is there?” she observed.

Slightly confused, he turned.

“Well if that’s how you really feel, I...” he commenced

“How else could I possibly feel?” she interjected.

“You’re always trying to make me feel silly aren’t you?” she checked.

“I mean, my opinions don’t matter, or do they?” she speculated.

“You know it all don’t you? You’re always right; I’m always wrong, and that’s all there is to it, right?” she rechecked.

Indignant, he became.

“What are you doing? Slow down!” she panicked.

“Relax,” he comforted.

 You’re going to get us killed. What are you doing?” she shrieked.

“I said relax,” he reassured.

 “We need to catch up and ask him whose fault it was,” he informed.

A verdict, he sought.

He pulled up sharply to the left hand side of the van, which had been caught by red lights at a junction, and began berating the van driver - shouting across her as he did so.

 “Oi! Fuckface! What you playing at?” he inquired.

“Eh?” The van driver quizzed.

“Yeah, you; with a face like fuck. You cut me off back there. Tell her it was your fault,” he instructed.

“Fuck off,” the van driver advised.

“You fuck off,” he corrected.

Something incoherent, the van driver blurted out, and then screeched off on amber.

“eeek!” she screamed in delirium.

“What is it?” he asked.

eeeeeeeeek!” she responded in augmented dilerium.

“What’s wrong? What did he say?” he alarmed.

“eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek,” she reemphasized.

Spin her towards him, he did.

 “Ah,” he commented.

Contented, he became.

“Yes, perhaps it really isn’t me,” he conceded.

Green phlegm dangling from her right eye, he observed.