He used to hate smoking indoors
because it would leave the furniture stained.
Instead, he sits with his elbows resting on his knees. The television is white noise.
I wipe my nose on the sleeve of his shirt. He threw it towards me
afterwards.
"Do you think that I'm more of a summer? Or a winter?"
I ask as though it were a fashion magazine, when really the women on the pages
were exposed.
I lick my thumb and turn the page while his hand darts
towards the ashtray on the table.
Perhaps
more of a summer.
