As if it mattered that it was nearly forty years ago.
The afternoon light shines through the cracks of a curtain to set fire to the misty blueish gray ring within a distant eye. The rays of golden sunshine catch as well in the pipe-weed smoke that fills the room, another vice dedicated to the erasure of any kind of negative emotion.
As if it could simply work like that.
The woman on the other end of the bed, previously tucked under the blankets, her form bare, awakens as some of the smog hits her lungs and she sputters, stirring, groaning, "Do you really have to do that in here? Could you not have gone outside?"
The man bats those eyes and turns them over to the shifting form of the woman, still barren of clothes as she sits up on her side and looks over her shoulder at him, dirty blonde hair barely hiding a set of eyes grayer than his, "Surely I'm not the only one."
She reaches behind her and bats at his hand lazily, without any real intent, "Out I say." She whines, wrinkling her nose sleepily.
He sets the pipe down on the nightstand and douses it, "Alright, alright...funny how even you've got your rules."
She sits up more full bodied and stretches, causing the sheets to fall from her further, revealing her back. Her spine is rigid and visible, and her ribs are starting to show as she lifts an arm over her head as if reaching for the roof while the other holds it by the elbow.
The man frowns and speaks again at her silence, not afraid to lecture her it would seem, "You need to eat, Amaryllis. I can see your bones."
The woman looks over her shoulder at him with eyes a mixture of hate and love. Blame is there, cuddled up right next to adoration. As if the only reason she's thin, the only reason they are where they are is because of him, but how could she ever voice it to someone who gave so much, and blamed himself all the more fiercely than she did. He paid his price. But it was still hard to forget. She pouts and seductively interrogates him, "Are you offering to feed me..?"
The man frowns. "I'm serious." He says quietly, "You do her nor I favors by withering to nothingness."
She winces. Words sting. "I thought we agreed not to bring it up."
As if what they were doing was anything but substituting. The man looks off at the discarded clothes on the floor beside the bed, telling of their guilty sins. What else was there to do? This was all they had left of it. But what a horrid, twisted, unhealthy, tangled mess they had gotten them in. He knows what he has to do. He has to leave. Nothing will better until he does.
It's time to wake up. To answer for it. To stop hiding.
To let go.
