stories I tell myself

There is smoke in the air, but the windows are open. It’s like it is frozen there, a constant reminder that it is 20 degrees outside and not even your body heat can keep me warm. You are radiating, but my breath is caught in my throat. And my eyes follow you as you walk around the room dragging on your cigarette. I am shivering on the mattress you never bothered to take off the floor, desperately trying to hold my breath and keep warm. I know you’ve been drinking, I can smell it on your hands and your lips. There is the faintest smell hidden behind toothpaste and cigarette smoke. I tell myself to stand my ground, to confront you. It is so cold. I tell myself to stand up and yell. My bones are shivering. “Close the window!” I shout instead. And you smirk like I told a joke you almost could be proud of. I wince as you slam it shut.