Looking on from the outside I see tired eyes behind dirty glasses. Unkempt hair with evidence of a hand trailing through from front to back. A lightly crumpled shirt untucked a little to one side and covered by a soft jacket to make the formality tolerable. He looks too young to have been thrown into a suit and behind a desk; there is a speck of light deep in his tired eyes, faded but fighting, objecting to this life he thought he wanted.

He is somehow less alive when he is indoors. He is the opposite of her in this way; she likes to sleep and sit and sleep some more. I’m not sure ‘likes’ is the right word…she feels she needs the indoors. The containment, the safety, the walls and the barriers. She is suffocating him. She is draining what little of that speck of light was left once the office had had its way.

But there they sit. Her vacant. Him vacant. A match made in hell. Their silent love grasping at anything it can to tie them to each other, but it is cold and weary and brittle. They both hope the sun will warm them soon, before they freeze.


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