She wakes in the familiar, unfamiliar bed, and is already aching for it, needing, and soon, bare feet are slapping the cold floor
(he stops in the kitchen, holds perfectly still)
as she staggers to the bathroom, hitting her knees before the cold porcelain, bowing her head,
(he sets the knife down, wipes off his hands, pulls the pan off the burner, leaves his cigarette to ash)
hiccupping low and deep, and hunching again, gripping the bowl,
(he stands outside the door)
but when the door opens, she doesn’t shy away when he leans down to hold back her hair.