Half Full Half Empty

I feel very alone tonight
Wind menacing the windows.

Remembering my husband's face
dour with wretchedness
after I say
Why don't you believe me?
You can't turn right here
it's for Authorised Vehicles Only.
You aren't a taxi
you aren't a delivery lorry.

He wants to park in the Loading Only bay
so I can jump out of the car and run across the road
and collect the tiny Christmas tree
and the holly wreath we bought this morning
in the street market
where you can't park
unless you are an Authorised Vehicle.

But he turns right anyway.
Parks in the Loading Only bay.
While I'm pacing the pavement on the other side of the road
waiting for the stall holder to come back from the loo,
a traffic warden comes up and says
You can't wait here.

It's not that my husband doesn't know the meaning of
Authorised Vehicle.
Because I check that very carefully,
before I crack into brittleness.
He knows what he's doing
and whose authority he's shaking his fist at.

How else can he let out that
festering boil of rage inside him?

Tonight the bottle of wine in the door of the fridge is more than half empty.
He might say it was still half full.