‘Sure. Drinking, fucking, drugs…the same, really. Wouldn’t really call it freedom, though.’
‘Nick never felt like freedom.’
‘Maybe you weren’t letting go.’
‘I was taking you with me.’
‘There’s your problem.’
You turn around to me. I wonder if it would be a form of freedom to lean over and press your cracked lips to mine. We’re sharing the same pillow. You breathe in the air I breathe out.
‘But you made it what you wanted, didn’t you?’ You point to your temples. ‘Imagination can sometimes make the dark bearable, no?’
You don’t look away. You’re challenging me. I lean forward. After a moment, you kiss back lightly.
‘Better?’ you ask.