He: “When you are not there, it feels as though you had just stepped out and are in a room next door."

She: “When you step out and are in a room next door, it feels as though you did not exist anymore.”

-Vera Pavlova, If There is Something to Desire

Brass had wriggled its way between their once-cottony affections. Things hadn't always been so cold, nor they so desperate for exchanges. A whisper of skin. A simmering conversation. These weren't things much to ask, and yet, all left to be begged. What once was matrimonial kindling now choked between suspicion and promises passed. This is how they signalled each other: He tug, she war. They were push coming to shove and the threads weren't going to hold much longer. Something, someone had to give. The cradle unborn would capsize between cold linen and contracted fingerlengths. This blanderlove would rot her. This cascade would show her beautiful.