I met him on a sunday, a lazy day; bought him a pack of smokes with a stolen id - spirit blacks if I recall - and we shared one on the steps of the bakery. inhaling awkwardly, inexpertly, conversating in fits and starts as the sun baked the concrete under our feet. the words always came easier in the summertime, the brushed fingers and nervous gestures just a preview of the devastation to come. back then nothing cost too much, and if it did we were blissfully unaware. later the bill would come due with interest accrued; we'd be bankrupt by then but the price would have to be paid. in tears and shattered bottles in the street, in screams and sweat and betrayals, in the ghosts that still whisper us to sleep in the arms of other lovers.

he told me I was beautiful once, in an offhand way. the darkness concealing the roses blooming in our cheeks we'd talk too quickly, not noticing the words, never meeting each others eyes. staring at the scuffed toes of my shoes I swallowed my reply, trying to ignore the way his freckles were suddenly becoming stars in my mind's eye. over time the figures of our present became no more than obstacles between fingers that longed to intertwine. one by one we'd destroy them too, turning them from living lovers into the ghosts that turned our tears to fire, our hearts to stone.

years later I lay on my back amidst the fresh gouges in the earth of our battlefield. the summer thunderheads were rolling in for the last time, the smell of rain foreshadowing. when the sky opened up we'd wash our hands of each other. "you don't know a thing about men," he said it bluntly, another gauntlet thrown down, another blow to be parried. the faint rumbling began and his words mattered as little as they ever did. lightening bolts reflected twice in my eyes I stubbed out my cigarette, rose to my feet, picked my way through the rubble and climbed into his lap to prove him right.