Wisps of smoke rise from the space between his fingers, a dull orange glow quivering against his inhale. She invites his demons to play with her presence, resting in the doorway. Her nonchalant posture is no match for the worry in her eyes, which betray her true demeanour.
“Why are you here?”
Her gaze darts away, her face following. “Why do you think?”
“Realisation?” “Of sorts.” Her brow furrows. “If you don’t want another knife to your throat…you’ll tell me…In plain words.” He crushes the cigarette between his thumb and index, and although the empty glasses beside him allude to some measure of intoxication, his eyes seem alert. Lo’reshu doesn’t doubt his claim.
“My father. He’s dead.” “And?” “And I know why.”
He scoffs, pouring another glass for himself, which he downs greedily.
