Why does she keep doing it? What sort of self-destructive vein is making her seek out these kinds of situations, again and again?
She keeps waking up before dawn, trembling as she recalls firm hands, soft lips, dark eyes. Is it an addiction, is she addicted, should she seek help? She tries to self-medicate, combat temptation; she draws a bath, stays in, drinking wine and watching movies. She gets a little tipsy and sends him a message, which he immediately responds to. And we’re on in three, two, one - and there she goes, out the door, wearing stilettos and lipstick and her heart on her sleeve.
She wakes up before dawn, trembling, with his warm hand on her hip, his moist lips against her neck, his eyes shut like the Gates of Heaven. She gets up, slowly; her body weightless, her head heavy, her mind clouded by alcohol. The guilt hits her like a fist in the gut, and it's system overload, it's hey, baby, go back to sleep, I shouldn't be here, I gotta move on... She knows, she knows she must go and never look back, and she goes, she goes, but she knows she’ll keep coming back; she’ll keep coming.
She’s on the balcony, lighting another cigarette, biting her nails. It’s freezing out there, it's the closing of another day, it's another battle lost. It's the blue hour, and that’s what she’s addicted to, really; the deep, rushing, forceful blues, the kind of music that has a colour, the kind of colour that has a tune.
She can’t hear the phone ring through the thick glass. One missed call, two, five, seven. Going once, going twice. Nine missed calls; is she ever going to come back inside? She must be starting to feel numb, careless, and it’s a pleasant sensation, isn't it, the tingling that begins in your fingers and toes, spreading slowly, crawling lazily through your limbs, like a vague itch, like teasing feather-strokes.
She’s run out of cigarettes, she’s running out of wine. The feeling of guilt fades along with the daylight, and if she’s not careful, she’s going to run out of reasons for not calling him back.