[ The glass is on the end table now, set down perhaps a bit too hard, but that’s of no account, but he’s scooting in his chair to better see her, and… Yes, he’s moving a hand toward her face. Her cheek. Like you do when women, when anyone decides to turn scenes intimate.

Only maybe he misses her face by a bit.

Only maybe his missed attempt swipes below her jaw and falls against her chest.

Well, whatever. That’s what she came for, isn’t it?

He doesn’t even like her.

Doesn’t like the look of her or what she’s meant to be.

That never matters. It’s a fuck, nothing more. He doesn’t even have to remember it come morning, if he wants.

…He probably won’t remember much about it, no matter what he wants. ]

You know it’s very lonely here.

[ He takes an unsteady glance over her, largely failing to take in any of her features. ]

I’ve done worse. You, though? Poor girl. Pitiless life.

[ And there’s a slack smirk, half-daft, half-knowing. ]

Yes, I believe I’ll read with you after all.