The light bulb flickers above his head. His feet are numb from the cold of the tiles. The wind howls through the slightly opened window. He knows he should shut it, but he can’t muster up the effort. So he leaves the wind to its song. He twists the hot water tap. It spits at first, then flows. Cold, always cold.
Razor blades. He begins to shave, but snags him self on the steel.
A trickle of blood runs down his neck. Red.
A flicker, the most minimal amount of movement. On the edge of the shattered mirror. In the corner of his eye.
A smile, a kiss, a memory.
A dropping stomach, a bead of sweat, an aching heart.
It’s always her.