In the summer night, their history lies like a silver sword between them. The last thing she said before she closed her eyes, "If there's a god maybe she knows the answer." The moon tires, they perspire, naked backs to each other not touching while like stones to glass the voices pass beneath the open window.

Falling to the floor, a sketch she made on the back of an indie night flyer: a violet heart above which scrawled, "If it wasn't me, who was it then, baby?" Memories of pills and bottled water and the creeping in of morning. Sighing deep, she mutters in her sleep, "You won't feel that way tomorrow."