what the fuck am I even doing?
and what the fuck are you doing, at 2 in the morning, with a dead phone and a good girl waiting for you at home?
you get the escape route, waiting for you when things get messy.
i get left to clean up whatever is left: usually a concoction of salt water tears, one word replies and a hint of desperation.
you pick your poison of the night.
i never get a choice.