She sat there watching him as he started to pass out with his head about to hit the coffee table, slobber running down his chin, unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth. “And he wonders why I won’t let him touch me anymore”, she mumbled under her breath.
Tag: cigarette
grief
I don’t usually smoke.
In this moment, however, the only thing more appropriate than a cigarette would be for it to be my funeral instead.