At times, she owns the air. She owns his clothes. She owns his tongue and she owns his urges.
He has had little say in this new ownership beyond that first admittance to his wants. And it is not so bad, he thinks, for her to own what she does.
Not right now at least. The future will surely swing to the side of regret. No, not regret. Longing, perhaps. Frustration. Disappointment. Withdrawal. All in rotation. But not regret. He is done with that one.
She makes him feel alive while she kills him slowly. He accepts the certainty of the latter for the rush of the former. With hindsight he would do it again – he will do it again. He is not quitting her until he is forced to.
Despite these truths, and they are truths, she is a habit he indulges in with a surprising reserve. A restraint he can rarely demonstrate. On these nights of restraint, he catches himself wondering the why to the how he holds fast.
Is it of fear or contentment?
It could be both. In him these two so often take turns hiding in the shadow of the other. And does it even matter, as long as he feels good whenstever he indulges? The man has few things in his life that he enjoys each and every time. Things that are always a yes.
She is one of those.
A cigarette.
Yes, she is one of those. And he quite likes who he is when he holds her.