He stood in the dark and watched her. He knew she was sitting there, he could see the red ember of her cigarette bobbing quick arches through the air. But more importantly, he could sense her presence. He felt each of her resigned breaths as though they were a draft on the back of his neck. As he stepped closer she spoke.
“What are you here for Damon?” Her voice was sharp, harsher than he had expected. He watched the ember glow red for a second, and then dim as it was lowered again. He knew the way her face would look on that inhale, eyebrows raised, lips pursed, each muscle concentrated solely on sucking the tobacco down deeper.
He wanted to speak, wanted to sound self-assured and confident. He was in the right here, he knew he was. But as he opened his mouth he faltered, and the voice that came out sounded strangely high and rough.
“I thought that you wanted me to find you.” Of course she wanted him to find her, that was her game. She always did this, hiding somewhere, waiting to be found. He thought she smoked just to pass the time, or maybe just to irritate him further.
“What I want.” She chuckled, uncharacteristically bitter. “Since when did you give a shit about anything I want?” Even through the pitch black he felt her eyes fix on his. She held him even through the dark with her unwavering stare.
For a nanosecond he felt something flush through him, something like shame. But the emotion was immediately quashed, replaced by the red haze of righteous anger. Stupid bitch. He clenched his right hand, feeling the new bruises across the knuckles. He wondered briefly whether she would be alright to work tomorrow, or whether she would have to call in sick again. Maybe she could cover it up again. God knows she has enough make up.