He’s got two coffeemugs on the table in front of him. One for the ash and one for the wine. The ash mug has a glow-in-the-dark alien on it. It fades exactly 37 seconds after the last thing I have to say. His smoke’s blending with the fog – I can’t tell where the night ends and his breath begins. And what would another dawn be but another excuse? He doesn’t kiss me but I know the bitterness his mouth must taste like. Will I see you again, I say. You already have, he replies. The question is, will you ever stop?