Her eyes were scratchy and her skin was pale, well paler than usual. It made her hair seem a brighter shade of red like a fire on a bright, cloudless day. The smoke burned his eyes and blackened his lungs. Her cheeks were puffy and her words were dry.
She had found him on the floor. He missed the bed by a few feet. He was clutching the bottle and muttering incoherently, and drooling. She shouldn't have taken the bottle. She shouldn't have done a lot of things. Her head still ached. He was a better drinker than she if nothing else.
She wore a long blazer over her underdress. "Are you just going to stand there?"
"You tell me." Booker smirked.
"My brother is much better at predicting your actions." Predicting wasn't the right word. Their fates were tied together, predestined no matter how much they struggled. Understanding was more like it.
"And where is he, your brother?"
"Not here."
"I can see that."
"I'm glad you can see something."
They had been stuck in this pocket of time for only God knew how long, trying to get it "right", and they still found things to argue about. She supposed that's what she liked about him.
"You're different."
"Are we?" It was barely a question. She knew they were, at least for now. "He's afraid of becoming me."
"He's fond of you, you know. Admires you,"
"What for?"
"I haven't the slightest idea," She laughed, "For trying to change."
"What about you? You fond of me?"
"There's nothing to say." She told him a long time ago. It wasn't that she couldn't remember. She couldn't forget. "You fall in love with an idea. It doesn't matter if it's the same idea, over and over. It's like that with people too."
She reached into the pocket of her blazer and took out a cigarette.
"Want one?"
"I quit."
"You quit?"
"Yeah, I quit."