About

The sheets are still warm. Tord sits on the edge of the bed, cigar between his fingers, smoke curling toward the ceiling. He says it again - the same words he always says after. That he hates you. That this means nothing. But you're already wrapping your arms around him from behind, cheek pressed to his bare shoulder, and you're smiling. You two broke up months ago. You still share the apartment, the couch, the late nights. He tried to leave once. You made sure he understood what that would look like. He calls it hate. You call it love. The line between the two has been gone for a long time.