It's cold.

 

It's so fucking cold in this stupid shitbox, and I'm on the main road so I cant stop and grab my jacket. But you said you wanted, you needed a smoke, and I don't mind but you hate the smell of it lingering so you opened the window. I can feel my arms turn to gooseflesh, and my hands are pink. It's early February and it's been snowing the 3 days leading up to now.

I glance over at you on an empty stretch of road, and I see you, in your jacket over hoodie over shirt, sitting on your calves and leaning out of the window, your menthols on the dash. The one you lit is held stiff between your index and middle finger, and I can see old scars on your hand. Mine hangs from between my lips, ash building up as I keep forgetting to tap it.

We used to smoke the same cigarettes, but I dont remember when it changed. Maybe it was when you tried to quit, and when you relapsed you thought menthol was better for you. I guess at that time, I realised I couldn't tell the difference between brands, and r1s are cheaper than Marlboros.

 

Yesterday we went to an old friends party, trying to pretend to be normal, but after a fair amount of beers(me) and a fair amount of vodka(you), we had a disagreement about something stupid, and my voice got louder, not shouting, but loud enough to be uncomfortable for the few friends in the room, and you stormed off, saying you had to think about some things. The booze had worn off by then and I was left in an awkward position with a gestating headache that's starting to rear it's head again.

 

I think I built you up too much when we met, because you where the most beautiful woman id ever seen, and when I was awkward and rude on accident(again) you understood, and for a while, you genuinely seemed to like me. I don't know who you think I am, but the person I thought you where is overridden with mundanity. Shiny hazelnut waves become limp brown hair, and you turn from that beautiful girl at the bar into Käthe, the office worker who thinks that Kraftwerk is underground and drinks wine at the weekends. But that's fine, I love you regardless, there's comfort in domesticity, but you cant seem to let go of your image of me. The problem is that that girl never existed, and as hard as I try to, I cant pretend to be her.

That was what I tried to verbalise this last night, but the beers added a maze the thoughts had to get through, but all that bullshit made it feel like all the breath was knocked out of me. But I know you hate losing control, and I know you think you won, and all your friends(because they really where more so your friends) saw and heard so they probably hate me now.

 

My car has no heating, and the windows are wide open, and I'm wearing short sleeves, but I don't think that's why it's so cold.

You speak.

You say you're sorry, and you say you didn't mean any of what you said, and you say you where drunk.

I tell you that you did mean it, but that that's ok. I tell you I think it's been time for this to end and we've been pushing it past it's due date. I tell you I still love you.

You tell me you still love me.

I don't believe you.

 

I pull into your blocks car park, and we both get out. You put your cigarette out on the bottom of your shoe and as you straighten back up, I step forward and hug you. The filter of my cigarette touches your hair, and it feels so soft that for a moment I cant believe I ever thought of breaking it off with you, and as I inhale your apple shampoo, as I feel you relax but not hug me back, I whisper into your hair, quiet to the point you wouldn't be able to hear if it weren't for the proximity, an apology.

I pull back and you kiss me on the corner of my mouth and walk into the lobby with a sad smile.

 

You forgot your cigarettes in my car. I don't return them and maybe I can tell the difference, because I've never smoked a cig before that made me feel so hollow.