“Deja vu,” she said, squinting. She had been lounging in her silk dress again, her bright knotted hair twisted and nestled around two vibrantly coloured chopsticks. She held a cup of coffee in her left hand and leaned sleepily on the open door with her shoulder.

They were silent. She leaned in towards him, the mist rising in spirals from the coffee enveloped his face as she sniffed the air around his neck.

“If you’re going to start sleeping at the pub,” she started, “drink the good stuff, I bet you taste like shit.”

He took another deep drag of his cigar. She handed him the mug of coffee and lifted the cigar from his grasp.

“I was expecting you.” She literally sipped the smoke from the cigar, holding it in without a slight cough. Her lower lip pouted and the smoke billowed out of her mouth, making art from raw smoke recycled in her lungs. She turned and he followed down the hallway pluming with the fragrant and humid air of incense burning in every corner.

She was watching him, waiting.