And he looked like Donnie Darko just before he burns the house down, all dark desperate eyes and sick passionate smile. The silvers of white china bounced around her bare feet, he reached for another plate; pausing in his shouts only to catch breath and hurl some fury behind the coming throw. She saw the plate whole and then only its brilliant shattering, the pieces danced across the floorboards throwing glints of light against the wall. They had been shouting at each for nearly an hour after a previous argument had been awoken once again. She rose from the chair, unfolding her limbs slowly, strode towards him and placed one perfectly manicured finger nail against his lips; the red of her varnish matching his complexion. He choked on his own onslaught, after regaining his breath he took her finger into his mouth and bit. Hard. The pain and embarrassment shoot down her finger through her body, a kinetic spark sent her hand soaring, open-palmed across his cheek. He recoiled dramatically.

For a brief second there was nothing, and then there was everything. They kissed. Her nails clawing at his neck; and he crushed her against his body.

When he finally stirred, it was late afternoon. He could not remember the argument or if they had resolved anything. The bed was empty. She had left early; silently seething and he had looked like something she might miss; a boy sleeping peacefully, lulled into sleep by alcohol. It was over all too soon she thought. He could see no alternative. It made him sad. The painting on the back of his door reminded him of everything he had drunk away, it made him smile; a sad smile.

He'd been home less than twenty fours; that's hardly time to take a shower. He found a picture of them, he tore it in half. It's not like he didn't like her, but it made him sad, because in the photo she looks just like a little girl with bright eyes. He heard that she had a new boyfriend. He scribbled a note on the back of the painting on his door, “So nice, and so smart, such a good friend; I simply had to break you heart and tear your world apart'. He whispered to himself “Just pretend I didn’t tear your world apart” and began to throw the empty bottles away. He’d been home less than twenty fours; that's hardly time to take a shower. He tore the picture in half, checked his e-mail, wrote some stories and read a book. The sky was grey and he looked like everything would be ok.