The Bottom Lined

They had always smoked cigarettes after making love.  It was a disgusting habit they loathed in others and admired only in the company of each other.

"I had more to say to you.  Didn't you know?" she said to him dryly as she dressed herself behind the partition.

"Didn't I know what?" he asked of her.  "And why are you getting dressed?  Come here."

"Didn't you know what I was going to say to you?" she asked of him, further indicating her frustration with his sheer lack of empathy.

"If I had known, would't I have let you speak?" he answered.  It was as if everything he said was out of habit and never out of humanity.  It was in that moment, she knew she had to leave him.  There was nothing left for her here.  There never would be.

"Not necessarily.  I would think it may have encouraged you to interrupt me," she said.

He was not stirred by this allegation.  Somewhere in these last weeks of their demise, he had become accustomed to her accusations.  They were white noise now.  Most nights, he would listen to her sterilize the room with all that she had to say.

There was little evidence of their happiness here.  After all, they were well versed in the art of commiseration and intoxicated by the notion of letting it all go up in smoke.