She looked at me. There was something mildly annoying about that look. Something mildly annoying about her, really. But that look that she looked at me. That hint of desperation, of a sex half undone, of a pleading ignorance to the situation. Of clouds, swimming endlessly, aimlessly.
I didn't think I had what she wanted. Still don't, but something seemed to work. Enough to get her off my case for the next few hours.
That letter. The stain, almost strategic, fading and warping the signature. Truths bending, and I sit here grasping with one hand and getting drunk with the other. Drink helps. Brings me back to normal.
The ice clinks in an empty glass. Both right; both metaphorically right, but both incredibly wrong. Dangerous. Mustn't let her see my thoughts. Betrayal would only taste sweeter.
A tryst. As simple? Too simple. She wasn't the sort. She was languid, wretched. Body told more stories than this bloody letter. Scars on the hips, broken fingernails, left shoulder easily dislocated, mind displaced. Thinking one thing and doing another, then another, then another. Then a goddamn other. Always comes crying back to me.
I still don't think I have what she wants. An answer? Too easy. An answer is as simple as choosing. Or destroying the other. She'd do that if she thought it was an option. So it's not.
Another drink disappears and the fuzziness helps. Takes the edge off the rationality. Makes advice easy. If she's here for the right answer, any answer I give is the right one, right? Makes it easy.
"A bullet."
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