She lies there crying in the dark. She twists and turns and one minute she’s with me and the next she’s far away. The window’s open. It’s cold, but the heating’s on. On her upper lip, there are beads of sweat I try wiping away with my thumb, but she goes and turns her back on me, so I think whatever and leave her to it. My desertion is cruel, but she brings it on herself, and if she won’t accept my love, then I’m going downstairs for a drink. In the kitchen, I raid the fridge and grab a beer before opening the back door and lighting a cigarette. She’s up there so distraught, and I’m down here becoming numb, and for a moment as I’m making out shapes in the smoke that’s drifting from out of my mouth up into the clouds, I think, fuck it. Is it me that’s in the wrong, or is it her? Am I uncaring, and or is that she’s too negative for her own good? Should go and be there for her, but there’s this part of me that wants to punish her for spurning my love, so I stay away. The hour’s pass and nothing happens other than me moving around in silence smoking and turning useless thoughts over in my head. It begins to rain, and the sound it makes as it hits the kitchen window temporarily eases my troubles. Going to her a little uneasy on my feet, I find she’s pulled off the duvet along with all the pillows and placed them on the floor. Searching for her in the darkness, I see her curled up by the wardrobe like some kind of animal. She’s sleeping, and she looks like a baby fox. When I wrap my arms around her, everything is okay, but by the time morning comes calling, I know we’ll be right back where we started.