Amaranthus caudatus

Drunk, unsteady, dazed; she steps in all the wrong places. His hand lies firm against her gut, she won’t die. She can’t die. The gash grew damper by the second. He dumped her on the couch and muttered something about pressure, she couldn’t care less.

Glossy eyes fixed on the picture against the wall, she asked him to bring whiskey with the suture.

Teenagers (8 years ago — was it?). Stupid teenagers. Happy, carefree, that arrogant grin never left her face; those caring eyes never left his.

Whiskey sloshed against the glass as he set it down, with a wince he tugged off her stained shirt. She didn’t groan or cry when he pulled the needle through her drained skin, whiskey killed the words in her throat and her eyes never shifted from the picture.

He knocked down the second glass she poured, she finally looked at him for the first time that night.

“What was that?,” he whispered.

A cocky smile bloomed on her face, straining to sit up, she pulled him in.

“You know me, picking fights I can’t handle.”

“That seemed like no fight.”

“It was all fair, until he pulled the knife.”

“There was nothing before he pulled the knife.”

Her unsure hum dissolved into a sigh, she tightened her arms around his neck. Feeling his breath against her, she mumbled into his mouth.

“I love you so very much, you know?”

“You don’t lie as well when you’re drunk.”

They could afford to pretend for just another night.