A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

Negotiations are going well. We seem
like reasonable adults with similar priorities — 
could we not have done this earlier?
You always were one for lulling me
into a false sense of security. Is it any wonder
I am now hypervigilant? I’m wasting spell slots
casting Find Traps, Detect Magic, Detect Good and Evil;
but it was too easy to open this door.
You always were worried about face — 
is this just your best behaviour for an audience,
or are you rolling crits on performance and deception?
See — the math doesn’t add up.  If you are
this reasonable, we would not be here.  
We would have done this months ago; we might not
even have needed help. You didn’t even let us try.
I asked time and again if we could talk,
just talk; or if you could let me know what you wanted.
You had your lawyer ask me mine —
and I was honest in good faith. You’ve had months
with the map, while I’m blinded in unfamiliar, difficult terrain. 
Is it any wonder I expect an ambush?
“…and that’s where we’ll leave it this week.”
A cliffhanger — we’re still in initiative,
fancy footwork, the foreplay of combat — 
in an echo I hear the DM remind us it is possible
to progress the narrative without crossing swords,
but I am still watching the edge of yours glinting
in the afternoon sun, waiting for the subtle shimmer
of movement with intent.  “Same time, same place, 
two weeks?” I’ll put it in the diary.