We have known each other for centuries.

Shells is sitting, half cross-legged on the bed, her left foot dangles dangerously close to the phonograph on the floor. Her brown and gold eyes never break contact with mine as they fill with tears. I imagine her eyelids rising with each intake of breath and then slowly falling on the exhale. Her collar is partially upturned from the previous assault.

The candle on the dresser remains lit. Her room, her domain. That is why I pose the question to her here. I want her comfortable and psychologically open to the answer that would make me the happiest. No interruptions, no escape, no noise. All the outside static in its place, outside.

I sit in a padded wicker chair next to a pyramid of plush animals. A streak of blood is running down my cheek from a cut above my right eye. The itching makes me want to scratch or rub the offensive area, but my concentration would then falter. I cannot show weakness, not here, not now.

Shells blinks. Once. Twice. Then she says, “Yes.”