She drives. I sit and smoke. She tells me to put it out. Or else? Or else you don’t get none. Meh. Meh? Yeah, meh. I’m not in the loving mood, I say. So what mood are you in? She’s ready to come right back at me with some kinda put down but I’m tired of life and cranky from not having a drink all night, so she gets no reply. The paint on her fingernails is chipped. Painted black they speak to me of how vulnerable she is despite the charade she puts on. Gripping the steering wheel with a frown on her face, I contemplate how her hands have taken me places no one would believe. Those slender, smooth hands that have brought me to the brink and kept me there until all I could do was beg for it to be over. As we pull into McDonald’s, I tell her it’s my treat. It’s always my treat. She drives and I pay for the food, that’s how it works. We eat in the parking lot. She has a small mouth, and whenever I look at it, I’m turned on like a horny toad. So I watch her as she tucks into her burger, and even though she doesn’t like my gaze, she allows it because when we make love I put her first. Sometimes when we fuck, and our eyes are mirrored, I tell her I’m sorry- that I never meant to be like this. After we get home and she lights up a joint we watch 10 Cloverfield Lane. I don’t smoke the stuff because it makes me sick and turns me into a shadow, but whenever she inhales, it makes her orgasms three thousand times stronger, so who am I to complain? Who am I to spit out disdain when my entire life revolves around the perpetual seeking of non-existence? Those lips. Those eyebrows. Sophie? Sarah? How bloodshot they are. How bad my tummy when faced with such inhumanity. Slide it down- make it mine. Please. Please? As the hour’s pass and I come undone, these changes keep changing me- they make me do things I don’t want to.