Serafíne
That first night, see, when the call to Jim does not go through, Serafíne is so very spent and scattered and exhausted and frightened and and and -
- that the failure of the call barely registers. Or no: she thinks that there is something wrong with the phone, some failure of technology, some misplaced number some downed - circuit, or whatever, perhaps some parabolic bowl somewhere catching the invisible waves of whatever that carry cell calls from ear to ear and the point is she has no idea how these things work.
They're fucking magic to her.
And she just assumes: the magic has failed.
--
And then she sleeps and sleeps and sleeps and works up the courage to visit the hospital and is both reassured and rebuffed and the days slip forward.
She tries Jim's number again.
And then again, and it is the third fuck-up, whatever that fuck-up is at the other end of the line: voice mail or disconnection or silence or a phone that just rings. Rings and rings and fucking rings, and if it is ringing Sera she leaves it ringing and ringing and ringing until one of her housemates is all, "Enough, Christ, Sera," and -
- that is when she starts searching.
Because she's fucking worried.
--
So: a white conversion van, still with North Carolina plates and now with a speeding ticket from some nameless white bread little town in Utah and if you want to know how a conversion van gets a speeding ticket it is called: speedtrap. Anyway: a white conversion van pulls into the parking lot of a third-rate motel that rents rooms by the week and/or day and maybe to select clientele by the hour. Dan in the driver's seat, tall and bearded and tattooed and hipster-lean and he gives Sera a glance as they pull up, but he doesn't get out of the van. He's just here as chauffeur and friend and confidant and everything else he is. He's here because Sera is a little bit high probably and shouldn't be driving.
Near sunset: the sun glinting off the windows of the motel make it seem ablaze. She slips out: not quite as skinny as she was when they last say each other, the fast, the party, Byron et al, but still, skinnier than she was when the whole thing started. Dressed like a Sera in tiny denim cutoffs and fishnets a white The Raincoats t-shirt over a black push-up bra and her platformed and silver-heeled boots.
Sera knows the room as well as she knows anyplace in Denver. Glances up at the bulk of the motel against the skyline then traces the outline against the darkness, her attention falling falling falling until she finds the room.
She starts with a knock, Sera, quiet, in the center of the door to that hotel room. But even if there is no answer, that is not where she stops.
Jim
When she pulls up Serafine may notice that the motel is not as run down as it had been when a van full of Awakened had first come there all those months ago.
It would still struggle to get even half a star if it were listed anywhere but the most broad of Google searches or the most targeted, but there's a fresh coat of mint green paint and that must mean the cracks underneath have been plastered over or otherwise mended. The doors are all painted white and broken windows have been repaired. The railings are also a crisp white and the parking lot's spaces are repainted. There's a new patina on the place and it's a layer of care from someone who didn't only do it for the lower rent, but because he took pride in doing it and keeping the place nice.
As usual there are children in the parking lot and they're dribbling a soccer ball back and forth and up and down its length under the dying Colorado sun, kicking it between two parking cones they have dragged from the somewhere or other.
Serafine knocks and she doesn't get an answer from the other side of the door. The blinds are drawn and it's nothing but silence. She can no doubt sense that addling magic muddled in the room's very resonance, the strength of its walls containing it in stoic custodianship, and the paint practically shimmers in the twilight game light plays, going from a darker green to a grey to a silver as shadows stretch longer before their death. That's Jim, it is, still in the place. But whether it means he's in that room or not is another question.
A question that gets answered. One of the kids runs up and looks up at her.
"He only opens up for the delivery guy," and then the kid sniffs the air and pipes up again. "Oh, you're that delivery lady," laughing as he runs off to his sister and starts kicking the ball again.
Serafíne
The changes in the motel make her hum beneath her breath. Make her exhale, see, beneath this curling smile that is balanced but faintly sad. Sera is standing in the shadow of the second-level balcony of that nameless motel, her half-shaved head tucked into the cool surface of the door to his room. Feeling, yes, feeling his resonance. Allowing it to layer itself beneath her skin, breathing it in as she takes in the long shadows, the shifting, shimmering patina of that paint. Ear to the door, listening but hey, it is a motel in summer. She's surrounded by the wheezing exhalations of a half-hundred old a/c units tucked beneath the curtained windows, set into that freshly painted mint-green facade.
That kid comes over and she lifts him her sharp chin, favors him with the remnants of her curling smile. Flashes him a peace-sign with her left (tattooed) hand when he pipes up, favoring him with an open-mouthed but rather quiet laugh. Clever kid.
Oh yes, she's that delivery lady.
"Hey - " to the laughing kid, running off dribbling the soccer ball between his feet. " - when was the last time you saw him, anyway?"
--
She waits for an answer, then turns back to the door. Knocks again and this time, with an open palm - more resonant, and her mouth close to the edges of the door frame and her forehead against the metal of the jam.
"Jim. Jim." No magic to it. Sera imagines her own magic would never penetrate Jim's wards. Doubts that she could see or taste or sense anything beyond the boundaries of that motel room she knew very, very well for a very long few days some months ago. But her voice see: it's an instrument too, of a sort. She knows how to make herself heard. "Open up.
"It's me. Sera. I wanna see you.
"I'm worried about you."
And she is. That worry is all wrapped around the column of her throat, coiled around the base of her spine. Opens itself beneath her skin and behind her eyes. Coalesces at the base of her lungs, and tightens like a belt with every breath she takes.
"Please let me in."
Jim
"Breakfast," the little boy calls out as he keeps on running, though in a loop, like he's excited the woman has deigned to talk with him, but more excited by the game he's running back to.
At least it sounds like Jim is eating. He undoubtedly is because that piney and earthy scent of what the child had assumed she was delivering wafts through the cracks and crevices of his door. An odor like a skunk. The kind that awakens the senses its so distinct and heavy when it crawls into the sinuses.
Serafine sounds like she is going to persist. But Jim has always had a soft spot for the woman. Even softer than for every other living being and maybe that is why he finally answers.
"Go 'way. I'm fine. Don't want to talk about it, don't want to see anyone, I'm fine," and then, not so much as afterthought as the only way he can answer her vocalization of that worry...
"Thank you," for coming, for caring, for whatever. Genuine, though he sounds a bit despondent, forcing his voice to a level its unaccustomed to in order to get it past the door and wall and window that stands between hem.
Serafíne
The faintest thump radiates through the metal door. It's not another knock, the resonant, open-palmed sort. And he's on the other side. Even if he looks out through the spyglass all he might have is a fisheyed view of the world that includes no more than a few stray, windblown blond curls. The other side of the door, the other side of the world, Sera pivots on the stacked heels of her boots and leans back, letting the back of her skull thump against the door. That, see, half-way between I'm fine and the second I'm fine and I'm fine never sounds fine, really, does it. Ever.
--
And Sera's quiet. Doesn't say anything back right away. Bites back sharply and then swallows the bullshit she would otherwise assert after an I'm fine so forceful she is constitutionally required by law not to believe, entirely.
Her eyes half-close against the setting sun.
Then her resonance recedes from his front door. Back across the parking lot to the space Dan found large enough to maneuver and park the unmaneuverable and sometimes un-parkable conversion van. Heads for the driver's side and thumps on the dirty paint and he rolls down the window -
hey, Jim sees none of this. Not unless he Looks.
Or looks, maybe. Like a shut-in through the curtains of his window onto the parking lot.
- and they chat. Quiet.
He hands her something through the window and she takes it and Jim cannot have imagined that it was that easy to get rid of Sera but if he did, if he thought that the ebb of her resonance meant that she was fucking leaving he was entirely wrong, because here she is sauntering back to the door of the motel room with this long stride in those high heels and that physical confidence she wears so openly. Winking to the kids when she skirts the territory staked out for their makeshift goal. Her shadow long and lanky in hte twilight as she returns to Jim's door.
And knocks, again, open-palmed.
Just once this time. It's a hey-are-you-still-there knock. Not a peremptory answer-this-door-knock.
"Sooooooo - " long and drawn out, her forehead in the interspace between door and frame, curved against the hard right angle with the door jam. " - here's the deal. I don't think you're fine, 'cos if you were fine you'd be all, come and smoke a bowl with me Serafíne, instead of all I'm fucking fine. But it's cool to be not-fine, too. I mean, I'm not-fine like forty-nine percent of the time and you've never fucking minded.
"So yeah. You don't have to talk about anything. And if you don't wanna see me you could open the door and close your eyes. Or leave the door shut, 'cos I can wait. Sent Dan to grab some dinner. I told him cheese steaks or barbecue or what the fuck ever so he might come back with Indian-Irish fusion if he finds a decent food truck.
"But I told him to get enough for two.
"When you feel like it, you can open the door. I'll be here."
Jim
The door opens.
It's as easy as that.
Jim simply isn't the kind of person to leave a friend - especially not one as close as Serafine, but indeed the sentiment could be applied to every living being - sitting outside of his door. She's here because she's worried and he can only guess what leaving her out there will end up doing to that worry. Magnify it? Twist it? Turn it to resentment? The last is the least likely, but either way he refuses to find out.
But that doesn't mean Jim is standing there with a smile on his face. He's not even standing there when the door swings open. If she turns around from where she's sitting all she'll see is his back retreating into the darkness. Swallowed by the flickering light of an television.
Not the old television that had been there when they first found the place. It's a larger television and it's nicer. Not new. But definitely an upgrade.
Chopping down a kingpin's empire has its perks.
The television is playing a game show. Jeopardy. Dings and sounds and questions and answers come and then stop as the betwix round smalltalk begins. He looks like he's headed for the recliner in the corner. Settling into it silently.
She had said he wouldn't have to talk.
Serafíne
He doesn't have to talk. Sera can talk enough for seventeen people when so inspired, though it is not her familiar tumble of her eager voice that follows Jim as he retreats through the dark motel room, in the cool dull glaze of that new(er) television set. Canned voices chattering back and forth over pre-screened anecdotes about distant, half-contained lives. She's a few steps behind him, glances back out the door at the glow of the dying sun on the clouds, clotted on the horizon over the parking lot, which bleeds into another lot and then another.
A strip mall, a used car dealer, a half-dozen cheap fast food restaurants, and so on, and so on, so spare and concretized and anonymous that they could be anywhere except: they belong here. Off a particular anonymous intersection, on the fringe of a city in the shadow of the mountains.
And those kids, intent on their game in the parking lot.
Sera pulls the door to the room closed behind her and that's enough of a headstart that Jim is three quarters of the way to his recliner before her eyes have oriented to the darkness. Which hardly matters to her: Sera runs, right. Or maybe: jogs really because there's not enough space to get the momentum to flat-out run. In the dark, in her high heeled boots, the handful of steps between them and wraps her arms around Jim from behind, before he has turned to settle into that recliner.
If he allows her.
If he doesn't hear her coming and try to dodge, see.
Sera has a bad in her right hand and he can feel the swinging weight of it against his right ribs as she hugs him. Rests her forehead against the curve of his skull and kisses him twice, at least twice, once at the point of attachment between his head and his neck, and then again, an inch-or-so behind his left ear. Then her head slips down until her chin is resting on the apex of his shoulder and he can feel the shadow of her smile in the curve of her cheek against his neck and he cannot see that it is a little bit wistful and a little bit sad. Just, maybe, he can feel the way she holds on to him.
She gives him an extra squeeze at the end before she releases him to retreat to that recliner in the corner and Sera herself settles cross-legged on the closest bed, as close to Jim as she can without being on the floor.
Wants to turn that fucking television off but she doesn't because it is: his place, his space, and he had it on in the first place.
"Thanks for letting me in," Sera tells him, quiet, oh, eyes on him but if he looks uncomfortable with her gaze she looks away. " - even if you didn't wanna. I brought whiskey." Because of course she did. She's fishing the bottle out of the plastic bag now, though it wasn't the only thing in there.
"Stranahan's. You want a drink?"
Jim
He is almost there. Jim had almost escaped it.
But she is Serafine and few distances and differences are enough to stand between her and the affection she wants to share with Jim. And maybe she knows what's good for him more than the other cultist does, because when those arms wrap around him and maybe pin his arms to his side or maybe snake around his ribs beneath to lovingly crush him she can feel him swell at the contact. His chest grows in a relaxed breath as he accepts and enjoys it. And then the kisses come like a cascade on his neck and behind his ear and in that expanse between his neck and his shoulder because it may be a smile but it just feels like another kiss and that one she can feel him shrug a bit from. Just not away from. Into.
It's almost too much.
Almost.
That means it's just enough.
Jim turns around and kisses the crown of her head in return. His arm finally shrugs again. This time up and around her head when he does so, the other one forced over her back. But once it is there muscle memory is roused and and he is returning that final squeeze. And he pulls himself away to sit down. She starts talking whiskey and he has got that bag in his hand quick enough, looking into it and reaching into it and pulling out the bottle.
Familiar in his hands the way most bottles are for a man like Jim or a woman like Serafine. He is wordless in his opening of it. He leans forward in the recliner, farther forward than he had already been to look into that bag after taking it from where she's sitting, and picking up a pair of upside down tumblers where they're sitting clean atop a folded white towel. Drying with the lightest gossamer fog of dewy condensation inside.
She's probably been focusing on him and not what his being is cocooned in. That's probably for the best. Tattered slim and straight jeans that look worn in. On the verge of needing a wash. He's barefoot and he has a stretched out v-neck on, stretched out like from tumultuous sleep and living in the thing for too long. He's unshaven, his mustache more vague in a growing beard, and his hair is longer than usual, messy and pushed about. His eyes are only three-quarters open. Just open enough. The pile of clothes in front of his yoga mat, propped up in the corner, are a hint as to the last time the thing has been moved.
The clean glasses has been sitting near an unclean ashtray stacked with roaches. Spliffs and blunts and cigarette butts, but Jim doesn't smoke, does he? Not cigarettes. But they're there too. The small trash bin is full of folded up pizza boxes, plastic food containers and soda cans and beer cans crushed flat underfoot.
He pours. Three excessive, three gluttonous, three fingers that might as well be a middle finger to propriety, in each glass. One for her and one for him and he stays leaning forward, his eyes drifting to the game show for a second, but the commercials come on and his despondency isn't enough to bear even that, so he brings his eyes back onto Serafine. Looks down at the glass held in hands, arms resting on his knees, and then taking it in one to toast her. A lackluster toast to anything. But if it's to her presence, that's something, or even if it's just to the makers of Stranahan's.
Serafíne
She had: one of his arms trapped against his torso and the other free, her own arm, yes, wormed beneath his ribs. Her hair smells like strawberries and cloves and her skin smells like outside as much as it smells like the joint she smoked earlier, in her garden, under the sky and other than the musk-and-ash stink of the room and the piles of take-out trash and the occasional, bracing lungful of car exhaust and diesel fumes from the hotel parking lot when the delivery guy comes and given the state of the room she is clearly the first thing he has smelled besides the narrowing detritus of life-in-the-motel-room in some time.
When he turns around, her grip on him shifts but - see? Sera doesn't let go. Her smile sharpens and sweetens and there's a lump in the back of her throat when he kisses the crown of her head. Then her forehead drops to his shoulder as that muscle memory kicks in and he returns the final squeeze. She's a little breathless when it's all done but she's also a little bit high and a little bit sad and she offers him whiskey all familiar and he pours too much but too much is what she wants, always, isn't it?
While he's pouring, Sera takes in the room. The trash can piled full, the overflowing ashtray. The file of clothes and his rolled up yoga mat.
Seated cross-legged on the bed in her stupid platform and high heeled boots and she leans over the intervening space to accept the glass and he gives her or the whiskey a lackluster toast and she does him one better, leaning again to clink glasses with him and the whole time her dark eyes are fast on his face nevermind the distraction of the television its humid blue glow bathing the room with banked light. There are a few stitches still in her left arm. The skin beneath them new and angry but the wounds mostly closed now. Healing well.
For a few seconds or a few minutes or some span of time marked by heartbeats and daily doubles and backwards questions, Sera just watches him, right? Affection and compassion and concern and uncertainty written easily and thoughtlessly across her face, though despondent as he is he's unlikely to see anything beyond the wall of his own pain.
So that first swig is more-or-less a shot because that is how Sera drinks, but then she puts the drink aside and starts unlacing her insane boots. Here's a secret: the heels start hurting Sera's feet sooner than you'd think but she won't stop fucking wearing them. So: she unlaces and the boots come off one by one.
"We went on this tour, right?" Sera's talking, talking around whatever it is that has him holed up in his motel room because she doesn't fucking know how to approach it yet and she's bent over her boots, her blond hair sweeping forward over her left shoulder, spilling down her torso as she works. Her voice is low and there's music in it. Jim's never seen the band play but: Dan and Sera and that fucking guitar against the wall in here, not so many months ago. He knows how she sounds. " - for a couple weeks. All these shit places, middle-of-nowhere dives. It was so fucking awesome. Played a bowling alley. A flea market. More dives than you can count. Sometimes twice a day, can't even start to figure how many miles we put on the van.
"I started buying shit. You know, the shit you find in truck stops? Those cheap souvenirs? Got you and Pan snowglobes. His is like, this cowboy black against a midnight sky?"
By now the boots are off. Sera tucks them aside and picks up the plastic bag the whiskey came in. Hands it to Jim by the handles as she slips off the bed and circles the recliner to pick up the overflowing ashtray. Picks over the remnant roaches - at least those not drowning in ashes - with a degree of expertise preserving any that look like they still have a hit or two remaining but from the scent of the room she doubts he's left anything behind. Still: if he has, they're preserved.
"Yours is in there. Got you a t-shirt, too."
Leaves him to open the bag - or not - while disappears into the bathroom to empty the ashtray into a likely looking plastic bag and then scrub it clean.
If he opens the bag, he'll find: a Dudley's BOWL-A-RAMA t-shirt, all 1950s iconography with the slogan (COME INTO DUDLEY'S AND SCORE) in smaller letters along the bottom of the design; and - a cheap plastic snowglobe. A brilliantly colored plastic version of one of the iconic views of the Painted Desert, the colors themselves gone wonky and psychedelic, indigos and violets and vivid greens layered in with the customary rust-and-gold of the place. Shake it and snow - or maybe sand - falls in glycerine layers over the view. Printed just at the bottom of the plastic dome: PAINTED DESERT, AZ.
Jim
"Sounds like a blast," halfheartedly as she gives a glossing over of the route that had taken them from one back road bastion to the next exquisitely quaint exit. What's halfhearted is maybe Jim looks like he is longing for that open road. Like maybe the room is getting smaller by the day. A tinge of wistful jealousy to his words.
Jim shakes up the snow globe his hand produces out of the bag, setting it down in a kaleidoscopic bauble of color as he pulls the shirt he is wearing off. Dudley's graphics and slogans are soon emblazoned over his chest as he pulls on the gift, like Christmas morning when you try on that new sweater. It's proof you really like it if you don't need prodding to do so, don't need to be asked, 'does it fit?' or 'do you like it?' but instead already have it on by the time the giver is emerging from the bathroom with your newly cleaned ashtray.
When his head pops out from the ringer neck of the t-shirt he is looking at the snow globe's tempest of color dieing down. And then over to her, glass back in his hand for his own sip at the amber fiery liquid, setting it down next to the glass with glass-on-compressed-wood thump.
Maybe he had noticed that stitched together flesh before, but probably not, the way his hand goes to it when she's putting that ashtray back on the bedside table. Fingers as close to the surrounding skin as they can get without prodding tender red and purple. He looks up inquisitively at her. Concerned. It has broke him from that dead-nerved thousand-yard-stare revery.
"What happened?" Here? How? When? Who? Why? A thousand questions wrapped up in the one.
Serafíne
Sera emerges from the bathroom with the clean ashtray to find Jim whipping off the old, stretched-out V-neck that probably smells like a roach that has been rolling around in the bottom of the ashtray and looks like the half-forgotten tee rolled up at the back-and-bottom of the dresser in favorite of the new one. She gives him this sidelong look as she reappears, which is not wary so much as aware, assessing. She's never seen him like this; but more than that never imagined this dead-eyed retreat into despair was a possibility for Jim.
Like Pan, he's always seemed both somehow inviolate and invulnerable to her.
Like the fucking Colossus at Rhodes, standing astride - Christ. The metaphor fails there: hard to tell what he might be standing astride. Just that she never thought to see him vulnerable. And the uncertainty that engenders in her slides over her skin like oil over water, leaves behind this sheen of care and worry that darkens her eyes and perhaps her countenance.
--
He takes her arm in hand. She was in motion but the gesture belays her and Sera stops, mid-step. He looks up at her, she looks down at him, loose curls sliding forward over her left shoulder. There is this steady though provisional weight to her eyes now and she wants to bend over and kiss him on the forehead and so she does, because it is not in her to resist or subvert her impulses or desires.
There, the center of his forehead, reaching out to cradle the back of his head as she does so. Thinks to herself that he needs a haircut.
"Dogs. I'm okay, though. Justin stitched me up. Pan was pretty badly hurt?" A sharp breath out, like a valve opening. If there are holes in the story, lacunae, well - in this precise moment she's far more concerned with him than with herself. "He - he should recover, though."
Gently, she tugs her arm and picks up her own tumbler of whiskey. This time, though, instead of sitting cross-legged on the bed she takes up a perch on one of the arms of that recliner.
"Jim, I know I said you don't have to talk about anything if you don't want to. And that's still true, so you can tell me to shut the fuck up if I need to shut the fuck up, but maybe it'll - maybe it'll help if you tell me what the fuck is going on. How many times have you been there for me when I needed you?
"I wanna be here for you."
Jim
No anger rises as she hits upon whatever is at the heart of his despondency. What has spawned with shadowy version of Jim lacking in all the luster she had come to expect from him. He is still looking at her mending wound and digesting the fact that Pan had also been hurt, but that he would be okay. That he should recover.
And when her lively eyes are turned with concern back upon him, after that kiss and that news, and it finally sinks in what she is saying and why she is asking and he's gulping at that rocks glass of whiskey like he'll find an answer worth saying at the bottom. He sets down the empty glass as he sucks in air through gritted teeth with a sound like a hiss. He pours himself some more.
"You are being here for me, Serafine," the look in his eyes like simply her presence is enough. He hadn't actively avoided it or her or the others. He'd avoided the world outside entirely, and they were the bystanders of that avoidance.
"I don't know if talking about it is going to help," it's the most he has said this whole time, and his voice is rasped and raw, a quality less discernible when he'd asked (shouted) to be left alone. Smoking and drinking will do that to you. He has been indulging in both and it is plain in that tonality.
"But I understand why you want to know and I'm not going to hide it from you. Things fell apart between me and Sid and I fell apart along with it," shaking his head slowly and deliberately before it nods back into the upholstery of the recliner. He looks up at her and puts his free arm - one is set aside for whiskey-retrieval - around her waist so that his hand rests lazily on her thigh. He slumps into her, like the contact has set off a magnetic chain reaction, forehead nodding forward now to rest on her other leg.
His face is suddenly hidden and there's only the sound of his shallow breathing as his back rises and falls with each inhalation. That and Jeopardy is back on. More questions being answered.
Serafíne
The only real light in the motel room is the blue glow of the television set and a thin line of sunlight from outside, where it cuts in through the break in the curtains ruffled and moving like laundry in a breeze by the a/c unit fitted until the big window. Still, there's enough light, from enough sources, that Sera casts a diffuse shadow over Jim.
When he tells her with his eyes as much as language that her presence is enough, she favors him with this smile, which is quietly pleased and humming somehow for it. The compassion in her gaze is enough to banish the shadows that have lingered there since the attack and the priest's hospitalization, at least in the here and now. No matter how raw Jim's voice is or how close the walls, she feels safe here, too. Wrapped in the resonance of the wards he worked into the walls so many months ago.
He doesn't know if talking about it will help and she's on the point of interrupting to tell him that he doesn't have to say anything, but it is brief and to the point and exactly what she was expecting. She read the strange mixture of hurt and heartbreak bright beneath Sid's skin the way some people read their morning papers.
By then her expression is sober, quiet. There's no particular reassurance, false or otherwise, not yet. Just the solidity and warmth of her presence, the way she turns to keep her eyes on him, bracing herself with the palm of her hand on the back of the reliner. The way she curves into the warmth of his circling arm, loose and familiar, breathing steadily.
Letting him hurt.
Because sometimes we have to hurt. Then he slumps forward, his forehead against her leg, and she makes a quiet noise somewhere deep in her lungs, which might be Oh, Jim, and might be something else entirely.
She reaches down, slides her fingers through the short nap of his hair, her fingers curving around his head, her palm cradling his skull, her thumb moving in a lazy, soothing sweep through his hair. Each breath he takes is warm against her thigh. Behind her, someone gets the laser-swooping sound-effect signaling a Daily Double! and bets conservatively, and wins more money but not enough, for an easy trivia question to which Serafíne would never know the answer.
No matter, she knows this.
Leans forward until she is bent over him where is slumped against her, her hair a waterfall around them. Someone else might smell the curl of marjuana in the strands, the distinctive sweet numbness of her clove cigarettes but Jim has been smoking and drinking for days and the air in here smells like an ashtray so mostly he might smell the clean sweet undergone of her shampoo.
"Things fell apart. Doesn't mean you can't try to put them back together, if they're important enough."
Fade
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