I wanted to join her in the little poetic make-shift couch. With a tilt of my head and a nervous jazz snap I replied, “Traffic.”

She exhaled slowly, kissing the smoke goodbye.

“I miss you,” I said, looking down.

“Shut the fuck up, Dexter.”

I bent towards her, crouching on my knees to see level into her dark eyes. She placed small hands on top of mine, curled anxiously on the bathtub’s edge. A bit of ash fell from her cancer stick onto my wrist.

In a quick dart forward she licked my nose and then burst into laughter. She took another drag and flicked it in disposal over the tub; frustrated I stamped the bad habit’s flame out. She said, “I missed you, too.” .

That’s all it took. I climbed obnoxiously in next to her and after some shifting she was laying relaxed and sleepily on my chest.

“What’s your favorite color, Cyyn?” I whispered.

She groaned.

My brows furrowed as she flopped over, her tummy now on mine.

With both hands on the sides of my face she said, “Call me Oliver”