“Daniel,” she croaks. The shifting gravel in her voice drops into her stomach with a feeble cough. Her pale legs are spotted with the alcoholic rage from the night before; only the whites of her eyes show as her heavy eyelids droop with fatigue. Her papery lips crinkle as she takes a drag of a newly glowing cigarette. The ashtray balancing on the tattered arm of the couch is a graveyard, filled with half-buried skeletons and fading embers. Muscles writhe under her pockmarked skin as she lifts her arm to pull away the cigarette from her mouth. Her bones shift as her clenched jaw opens and she calls: “Daniel, come here.”
Silence.
“Daniel, I said come here. Don’t make me come up there. Son of a bitch.” A half-hearted chuckle escapes her shriveled lungs. “I guess that makes me a bitch. Well, cheers.” Heaving forward, she snatches the glass of wine off the table. The glass sweats nervously, tickling her dry fingertips. She sighs as the familiar burn soothes her throat.
(I don't know if I'm going anywhere with this...)
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