A handful of clouds are lit pink on top where the sun's last Sunday light can reach, shadowy violet on bottom. Jet-setters soar by - birds perch on decrepit limbs of Winter's trees.
I've thought about drinking all day, and finally, "Brian, you want some wine?"
"I'd better not."
"You better not?"
I ignore the question, step outside.
I let my heart be wrenched by possibility of a past lover's moving forward - foolish me - so I sit with a cigarette; punish my lungs for my heart's childish hurt.
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