I glanced over. The satin of the pillowcases was streaked with her mascara which had run down from the corners of her almond eyes, down her hollow cheeks, and onto the pillow cushioning her troubled head. There was a dent where her body should’ve been, and the blanket was thrust aside. I wanted to get up. I couldn’t. There was no compelling force. No motivation. No reason. No.
Rays of warm sun came streaming in through the window shades. They lay themselves along the furniture, in strange and bent lines, until they reached my face. There they curved, in warm little stripes, down my forehead, eyes, cheeks, lips, and neck.
She walked into the room, while smoking the last cigarette in his daily pack, puffing out the grayest smoke I’ve ever seen.