He sat on the stoop, his forehead on his folded arms atop jeans worn at the knees.
The cause of the fight blurred within the words she’d said between tears, the words he’d growled in return. Or was it the other way around? His truck waited on the gravel driveway, the keys in his pocket. A June bug pinged in the metal shade of the porch light. A mosquito drilled his bare shoulder.
When the punishing words ran dry, she'd told him to leave, so he did. But neither had said the cruelest word… goodbye.
He sat on the stoop.