“Are your parents still together?” she asks.
“My parents?” I ask her, taking another sip.
“Oh, sorry. That was stupid of me,” she replies, and, even though the room is dimly lit, I think for a moment that I see my own reflection in her dark eyes.

* * * * *

“And whenever she calls, day or night, I pick up, because she might be holding a razor to her wrist or gripping a bottle of pills in her fingers or holding a fucking gun to her head,” she tells me. It’s raining sheets outside.
I take another sip, not knowing whether to hold her or to run from her.