Neither of them ever mentioned that first time, when he had pounded on the bathroom door until she had relented enough to unlock the door. They never mentioned her sobbing confession from the edge of the bathtub, her desperate unhappiness at the ravages of life and choices. Neither of them ever mentioned his fingers tangling with hers as she cried messily, loudly, and gut-wrenchingly into two sets of entwined hands. They never mentioned her shame and withdrawal over her tears nor his acceptance and open arms. Neither of them ever mentioned his desperate, fleeting kisses over her lips, eyes and nose. They never mentioned her face pressed to his neck, his skin a salty mixture of sweat and tears. Theirs was a relationship of omissions – what neither acknowledged was bound in smoldering glances and hovering hands. At night, she could hide. But the daylight cast shadows of self-recriminations that were too hard for either of them to face alone. And so he went to her during the heat of the day, and held her while the tears fell. He'd leave before dusk and the words would fly away until the next night ended. There were some things that could only by freed and remembered with a high proof of alcohol.