Sophie still smoked. It has all the pupils dilated. They devour the room, you can not see it.
Earlier, she was crouched in a bathroom on the floor in shades of blue, and swore it was the last time. The last time she smoked? Or the last time she thought of Paul? She watched the rise and scrolls lick the ceiling. It made her think of him, again. And she caught herself thinking about him just by watching this. Smoke. What's the fucking report? Ah yes. Paul is vanishing . It is there when he wants, every other day, when it takes him, when he wants to be told pretty things. And there she is, she waits. It the awaits. The Misfortunes of Sophie, you talk.
Then she pulled herself together and tried to think of something else. She looked straight ahead. Under the sink, He ran a huge mess. An old box cakes from Brittany, a candle, a curling iron, medicines. She saw her reflection in the pipes. A huge head with a tiny body. "Welcome to the world of Sophie" she hissed between his teeth. Throat full of smoke, she resolved to read the user manual for a shampoo that was lying. For hair dull and flat, Cien haircare, fruit acid . Bingo, she did not think Paul for the space of a minute. It should have read slower.
She said she felt like crying, just like that. But she never succeeded crying while smoking. God knows why. And then she did not want the evening ends, to go to bed alone and cold in his sheets. Not sleepy. Never again, never sleep. never sleep without him .
It was relative: it was his birthday. You go out there, Soph. It's not every day you turn nineteen years. Then she went out the door creaked behind her. With it, the ashtray.
And a smile.
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