100 on Threshold

“My tolerance is low.” You scream in my ear, drowning out whatever resounding thought I had waiting in the wings for retort. “Do you not get that?” The snarl, ever so slight punctuated with the side glare before your eyes return to the road. I am wounded now, fumbling with the door handle. I want out. You do not see. I bite my lip, sitting quietly, mentally ticking off the exits as they pass at speeds not fast enough for me. “You sulking now?” Again that sneer, “Are you? I can take care of that.” Now my threshold is low