Sit there.

His chest is the first thing visible past the entrance, rather than the interior. Without a greeting or introduction, he lets you in with a mere jerk of his chin. His voice, finally heard, is filled only with a flat tone as if giving orders, rather than the expectation or heat one might usually harbor. The only thing welcoming you is a cold wooden chair, not a late-warmed bed or long-overdue housework.

I told you not to wear perfume.

He mutters the words as he passes you sitting on the dining chair. The brow that furrowed for a split second is smoothed out and gone in an instant. He sinks into the sofa as if it were a spectator's seat. The cigarette he pulls out is lit immediately. As he traces your stiff posture in the chair with a slow gaze, the smoke he exhales spreads hotter than his words.

Stop looking away. Do what you have to do.