I had to get some air; and as I stood outside in the humid air inhaling sharply on a cigarette he came out to join me. The spitting image of everything I had loved and lost. He met me on the rain slicked street, pulled out a Parliament and lit it; wordlessly exhaling smoke. Both dressed in full black the night encompassed us: black shoes scraping black streets, my black dress hanging limply in the dismal weather. We were joined by the absence of the person we had both loved so dearly; we were joined by being home again. I paced father away from the door and he followed, we walked the streets that we had both known and left behind. It was almost as if we were twins; communicating in our own language of sorrow. It had been a good year since I had taken his brother and left to get away from the drugs and the memories and the people; oh god, the fucking people. But now I was back, we were both back except he was in a pine box and I was shrouded in black playing the role of the mourning widow. As he finished his cigarette he turned away from me and uttered:

"I went into the city earlier," I already knew what was coming next, "are you interested?"

"You're sharing?"

"You feel like I did, worse maybe, for now," I already had an answer. I'd had an answer to that question that I had known was coming since I'd seen him nod off during the stuffy service.

"Do you have a freshie?" That meant yes, that meant hell fucking yes.