At this moment, we had only two things in common. One, we were both completely naked. And two, we'd both just eaten the exact same dinner in this shitty little apartment. Could this even be called an apartment? Maybe twenty odd years ago. Now it was just this piece of shit derelict building at the edge of town. We could have called it as house, never a home, if more than one room was inhabitable. It was too much work to clear the shit from the other rooms when we'd be leaving in less than a week or so. Given our track record, probably within the next few days.

I was in front of the window, the countertop fan blowing across my skin, brushing the little beads of sweat on the back of my neck away. You were sprawled on the couch, flipping through the channels, pausing every time our faces were plastered on the tiny screen. The way you'd been doing for the past god knows how long. You just stare at that screen and smoke those cigarettes and laugh about them always getting your bad side.

Before you, everything kind of feels like a lazy blur. Like one of those old sepia movies, pushed into the back of my head. It's too hot to have you pressed against me now, with your skin on mine and your scent in my nose. Spicy, not like cinnamon or curry or pepper, but something all your own. If we could bottle that up, we could make a million, settle down, live that picket fence life both of up know we were never meant for. Not that we hadn't tried. We met in college, both of us struggling on until you'd snapped and burned your textbook and set of the alarms that sent the whole dorm off into the night at 3 am. You were laughing, I was freezing. I bummed a smoke, those clove blacks you still get today. We'd fucked in your truck.

Half a year later, we dropped out. A few months later, they were calling us the new Bonnie and Clyde. Which was funny shit, you know, because we were different in some pretty damn obvious ways. That week, I nearly broke your arm and you gave me three damn bloody noses and a black eye for the record books fighting over who was Bonnie and who was Clyde.

Your lips break my concentration, bringing me back to the heat and our bodies. You taste like you always do, chocolate mint and cigarettes and that spice of your skin a hundred times more, fogging my mind and weakening my knees just like it always has. That spice, god, it's like red lipstick in black and white movies, a shot of colour in the dark. Like the smoking barrel of a gun in an old mob flick. You make fun of the way I'm addicted to film. I make fun of the way I'm addicted to you.

We both knew it was coming to the end. Those weren't wedding bells ringing, it was that familiar siren always in the back of our heads. The dinner we'd salvaged, the chocolate mint ice crème, well, I could see in your eyes you tasted it before I did. God damn, that mouth of yours is so distracting. That spice, it was betrayal and deception. Broken glass and car crashes. It was danger. It was probably the first thing that should have tipped me off about you back in college. Maybe that's what I'm addicted to. Not you, but the danger. The excitement. Modern day Bonnie and Clyde, my ass. We were something completely new. Something I couldn't quite put a name to, not when you're pulling me down on the cracked tile, the dust clinging to our overheated and underdressed bodies. What was that line from the movie we'd snuck in a few years back? It seemed so appropriate for just this moment. That woman, standing there, singing away. "Some men just can't hold their arsenic."

Maybe they can't. Maybe they just don't want to.