Like fire they fall to my arm, burning, not at all soothing like her voice cracking and whining is trying to come across as.

“I don’t understand,” she says, wiping more from her eyes, flinging them with the flick of her index finger to the wall behind us (in hopes of setting the apartment on fire maybe?).

“You don’t have to,” I say standing up. She falls over into the now void on the couch, face down where it is still warm. “And next time, don’t play the field so much while I still love you.”

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