Stale

The smell of stale, dry sweat lines her smooth flesh. Lightly pale, she smells of me. I was one of the lucky ones; lucky enough to sleep with her. In death, sex becomes futile. There is a point in ones life where sex’s only meaning is life. Necrophilia comes to mind as an unorthodox way to venture. As I inhale another breath of dry sweat I cannot help but embrace the warmth. “Don’t ever get cold, okay?” I say to her.
“What do you mean?”
I realize I have dug myself yet another witless hole I so often find myself in with her. “I don’t know, never mind,” I answer.
“Would you be surprised if I hadn’t asked what the fuck you’re talking about?”
“Necrophilia,” I answer.
“Why?”
I sit up letting the sheets drape off me as I turn my legs out and over the side of the bed reaching the flat, grey coloured carpet. I reach to the night stand and grab my cigarettes, removing one and lighting it quiet fluently. I have been smoking for eleven years, nine months and twenty-one days. I remember my first, my fathers Benson and Hedges. I never looked back.
“Well, do you mind why something so crude would come up at a time like this?” she asks again.
“I don’t know, my mind was just wandering.”
I stand up and stretch my legs, which are cramped from such a passionate romp. I exhale the sweet carbon monoxide, taking in the formaldehyde and benzene because I need it in such a moment. I ignore her as I walk towards the washroom and listen to her sigh and get out of bed distend for the kitchen.
I stare at myself in the mirror. This is often not the greatest idea. Looking deep into my empty eyes the cigarette burns slowly. The smoke travels upwards, canvassing the contours of my face and into my eye, stinging it horribly, breaking me out of my trance. One last drag and I flick the cigarette butt into the toilet.
A farrago of hostility lingers throughout the room. “I’m getting out of here for awhile,” I yell, “need to clear my head.”
“I’m making you food you inconsiderate!” she replies.