She was drunk again. The night and the dark of the of the closet she was crouching in bled through the phone and he could taste the harshness of vodka and the sweetness of juice in her voice. Her breathing was wet and mixed with the papery sound of dresses she was pushing off her face and the fluttering of the moths that were eating them. He understood most of what she said but not all of it.
He understood when she said, “come over.” It was always the same and the worst of it was that it was always the same.
The night was cold and when he walked in the window was open. There was hot air and cigarette smoke coming from the vent. She smoked when it was cold and when he saw the smoke he felt something.
“I wanted you,” she said and maybe she did, he didn’t know.
He told her he did too, and he was lying but he wasn’t sure how.
Her blankets were thick and they didn’t close the window and the things they said and did may have been true or maybe once had been. It didn’t really matter.