mornings are meant to be shared, cuddled between soft sheets. mornings are meant to be made an abstract tangle of limbs, tender touches, soft-spoken confessions of affection. not this morning, this morning you reach over and feel nothing but soft silk, not the warm body you’ve become accustomed. slight confusion, but no alarm, not yet. you call again. he does not answer. he wasn’t in the en suite shower____you would have heard him. you push yourself from the bed, sleep still lingered in your eyes. footsteps padded by plush rugs you find him in the kitchen. back turned towards you. he had covered himself sometime between going to bed the night before and you finding him. his spine curled forward as he stared intently at something on the countertop. his shoulders rose and fell, rather quickly. you could see one of his hand clenched the neck of a bottle____vodka. a faint tapping as a painted nail pressed rapidly against screen. you call. he answers. “ you still talk to him, don’t you? ” voice hollow like the bones of a bird. @theysnakes // ryo
