He was at his nocturnal rounds, pacing in all aimlessness. She seated at the steps, with puffs of smoke that blow without rhythm, interrupted by occasional coughing. A sign that reminded her that She had lost touch with her inner being, i.e. the tobacco being. She tried thinking Zen as his steps be heard around her.
His t-shirt, she did not like. But, kept mum, she was too tired. He was becoming tiring. Or rather had become tiring. Pacing slows, gives way to words.
“I am going to bed” he says.
Nothing more nothing less.
A kiss on the shoulder she feels but remains the statue she was, the whole night, while he toyed with emotions with indifference.
“You want me to leave the pack for you?” his voice, questions, no answers.
A kiss on the forehead. A shadow lost in the shadows in the dark.
Cigarette butts in hand, she walked, to the sea.