The cigarette sits perched on an empty can of beer. She looks at it, looks at the ceiling, looks back to the cigarette, then closes her eyes and falls asleep. Her bra smells of milk, and she hasn’t taken it off in days. Can’t be bothered. No energy. No desire. Whatever. I’m in the shower masturbating. There’s nothing on my mind, and I don’t even really want to, but it’s good to clear out the tubes. At least that’s what I once heard. And it releases endorphins, right? So it’s kinda like taking a vitamin tablet, or something. When I’m finished and have washed away the remains of my vacant act, I go downstairs and cook her two eggs making sure not to break the yolks. When they’re looking good, I place each one on a slice of lightly buttered toast and pour her a glass of orange juice. Taking them to her, she refuses to open her eyes, so I tickle her feet, and soon enough she eats. The days are dark and cold. They suck the life from out of my bones. The animals are hiding. Haven’t seen them in what feels like forever. There’s a little rain. It hits the window and clings until slowly each bead evaporates as if they were never here to begin with. Need to pop down to the shops to pick up wine and dinner. In that order of importance, too. I’ll get a treat for her as well, something to lift her mood. But what if I’m attacked on the way? What if someone throws acid in my face, or I’m stabbed in the belly by a pack of travellers? Standing there worrying while she finishes her food before washing it down with the orange juice, I decide to leave as quickly as possible, for if I venture out after dark, then the chances of being attacked will be a certainty. Kissing her on the lips and running my fingers through her hair, she tells me not to be long, but all I can do is nervously laugh before hurrying downstairs. Putting on my jacket and shoes, she calls out from the bedroom. When I ask what she wants, she tells me to wear my hat, because otherwise, the rain will flatten my hair and people will laugh and call me names.