“Carmen, uh she asleep on the couch.” there words calling me away from her, and she just stand letting the toxic smoke out of her lungs.

“Yeah,” looking at her once again trying to let her know that this is the only way she’ll leave us alone.

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The smoke filling my lungs, the hate making the taste bitter overtaking my mouth. Trying to get rid of the taste, spitting it out onto the ground that she was on. My shoes dull faded and dirty, a small hole forming on the right side and I let the smoke fill my lungs again hoping that it would help release some of the pressure from my chest. The sudden need to leave crossing my mind, the dull ache in my feet wanting to move. The wide open street beckoning for me to give in. the shuffling of feet, the presence of someone next to me asking in her own quiet way if I was ok. Staring downs the street, the dying embers from my cigarette and I can’t move. I want to run, to run into the house and pull her into my arms to kiss her. I want to run down this strecth of road and never look back, I just want to run.

The slight sound of metal moving against each other, and the shining outline of the keys in front of me. A way to escape to get away from that rancid breath that blamed me for her messed up life, away from her eyes that worry if she was hurt. Those eyes that tell me that she is only doing it because she has to, and I fear that she is just going to realize that she was wrong. That being with me is the worst thing she could ever do, that I’m the mistake that she keeps making. Her hand still out holding a way to freedom, the filter of the smoke in between my fingers flying from them with ease. The sick feeling that I’m just leaving her again as I take the keys from her hand. Without saying anything, nothing but a look, I walk to the car. The door opening with ease, closing with a loud bang and the wheel in my hand. Resting my head on it trying to get forget her eyes, the slight resistance of the key turning in the ignition. I see her standing in the rear view mirror, her hands in her pockets and I hate what I’m doing. I hate it, stopping on the street, running my hands over my face. Looking at the house, two rooms glowing with light, and I wonder which one she’s in. what is she doing?