“This was the last pack,” you tell her, the words turning sour in your mouth. You throw the empty cigarette box onto the ground and crush it underfoot.
She looks at you, dissatisfied and concerned. Her eyes wander off to the side, settling on an empty patch of asphalt. She holds her upper arms in her hands, sliding them up and down along her triceps. It’s ninety degrees outside, but your lies leave her cold.
“What do you want from me?” You ask.
She doesn’t have an answer, because she doesn’t want anything anymore, not from you. She’ll tell you later, but for now she’ll let you lie to yourself the way you lie to her.