morning wine.

She lit a cigarette without interest. The smoke joined the haze of the room. It was like sitting inside a cataract. She sipped some wine. Her glass was filthy. Handprints and lip smears of an evening's drinking turned morning covered it. Her eyes flicked to the grey light growing at the window. Her fingers flicked the dangling ash into an empty beer bottle. His eyes hurt. Stung by smoke and exhaustion. He sipped flat coke and cheap vodka. The bitter, oily burn brought a grimace. He put the glass down and looked among the half emptied bottles for something drinkable.

There was nothing.

She dropped her butt into the beer bottle. A small hiss escaped as it hit the dregs. She sipped her wine again and looked over at him.

'Why is it always us?'