She finds peace within the chaos.

It has been a while since she has found herself surrounded by the hazy smoke. She slowly brings it to her lips and inhales deeply. She feels the warmth of the smoke within her moist mouth and slowly exhales, making the steady trail of smoke dance towards the low, off-white ceiling. She has lost track of time as she sits on the leather couch; it sticks to her bare legs as she moves around, readjusting the position of her legs. It creaks loudly but she doesn’t notice the sound. Instead, she is enchanted by the low rumbling voice of Louis Armstrong laced with the sultry voice of Ella. She closes her eyes and gently sways her body as she quietly sings with them: 
Under a blanket of blue,
Let me be thrilled by all your charms.
Darling, I know my heart will dance
Within your arms.
Opening her eyes, the room suddenly seems so much smaller. She can hear the sound of her own breathing echo within the room. The walls glow and the room feels too warm. She sinks lower into the couch and allows herself to be carried away. She curls up in the corner of the couch into the fetus position and begins to weep. She lets out small, quiet sobs; her breaths are rapid and short, following a stream of tears down her face. Still in her hand, she takes one last drag before tossing into the cigarette tray and rolls onto her back. Staring at the ceiling, she recalls their argument last night. She only remembers the numerous times they told each other to fuck off; the yelling and the anger that filled the room was insurmountable.

She gets up and quickly runs into the kitchen, the tile floor sending chills up her spine. She scrambles for a wine glass and opens up a bottle of Shiraz, pouring right up to the rim. She takes a big sip and slowly walks back to the living room. She walks over to an empty wall and slides her back down towards the floor; sitting in the corner, she watches the front door. The floor is cold and sends goose bumps along her legs. Louis and Ella have stopped singing; the only sound playing is from the humming of the fan. She looks down at her crooked knees and begins to count the number of small scars on them. She sighs and walks over to grab her small purse on the floor beside the couch. She sits cross-legged on the floor and pulls out a small tin box. She carefully opens it and takes a deep breath in. She measures the precise amount and carefully rolls another. Taking it to her mouth, she gently licks the end and seals it.
Perfection.
She fumbles her box of matches and quickly lights it. Taking her glass in hand, she takes another large sip before bringing her masterpiece to her lips.

She remembers her home.

She can hear him breathing heavily next to her. His legs are tangled around her own cold, bare legs. The room is pitch black with only streams of city lights leaking in through the curtains. She can hear the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen even with the door closed. All the noises seem to blend into a soft symphony of the night; it plays through the night as she stares at the ceiling. She closes her eyes real tight and sees waves of yellows, blues and greens—the comforting colours of the sea. She opens her eyes and turns her head slowly, careful not to wake him. She notices that he has rolled onto his side. She can see the silhouette of his body; his head is pressed against the pillow, his collarbone is exaggerated by shadows highlight the curvature of them. Slowly, she nudges a little closer to get a better look at his face. Everything looks so different in the dark; she feels like she is in a silent black and white film. She studies him closely. His bone structure had never looked so strong and prominent in colour; his eyelashes look so much longer as they flutter gently; his mouth is closed, as if afraid of spilling his most inner thoughts. They are sealed and his lips crack under the pressure of all his secrets. She rolls around onto her back and envisions the sea.

She lets out a small sigh.

She’s Alright.

She wakes up to a loud thud.

She rises sleepily; eyes barely open, she sees the blurred outline of him. She lays her head gently back down on the crumpled pillow and watches him. She rubs her eyes with the back of her thin, pale hand and yawns. She can feel that her feet are cold and clammy—she pokes her toes out from the blanket. He grunts a quick “sorry” and goes back to his bookshelf. His eyebrows are knotted as he concentrates on removing his novels from the shelf to the ground; someone must have touched his belongings last night. That is the only explanation. She notices his sturdy arms as they move up and down, back and forth, never missing a beat as he stocks and restocks his bookshelf. She watches the light of determination within his eyes as he concentrates on each book as if they were the only one. It is when he is in one of these moods does she become fearful of him. She stifles a yawn as he finishes putting the last few novels back into place: their rightful place. Placing the last book onto the shelf, he turns to her. His forehead is no longer wrinkled with irritation and she recognizes the sparkle of liveliness in his eyes: he is back. With the back of his hand, he brushes the hair out of her eyes with one quick sweep. She blinks. He is talking to her with his eyes. She understands completely.

They walk out into the living room. She watches him walk; his natural gait is perfectly symmetrical and she tries to follow his footsteps: left, right, left, right, left, right. She halts to a sudden stop. They both stare at the numerous empty wine glasses scattered across the room. There are red wine rings on the wooden table; the room smells strongly of nicotine; dirty plates are piled on the floor and table while the couch is pushed back to the other side of the room. She cannot remember what had happened last night. Not all of it at least. She looks outside the patio doors and sees that it is raining. She shivers at the sight of the grey clouds. The tile floors are cold as she tiptoes over to a stray chair in the middle of the room. She sits with her legs up and hugs her knees as she watches him turn around to head to the bathroom. He slams the door shut.
Last night helped us solve the lingering question but where do we go from here? He told me that I’m alright; I nodded and gave him a smile but I don’t even know what that means…it’s fucking cold in here. 
She sees him walk out of the bathroom; shirtless and hair damp, he calls to her. She slowly stretches out her legs and scurries towards the bedroom.

she’s a work in progress.

The white tile floor sends chills up her spine as she tiptoes across to the coffee brewer. She quickly fixes up a pot and while waiting for the coffee to brew, she stifles a yawn and hurriedly ties her hair up in a ponytail. She walks over to the window and watches the cars go by.

She had woken up to daylight leaking through the curtains. She never thought she would wake up next to him—the face of a beautiful stranger. His breathing was slow, his chest rose up and down rhythmically as she laid her hand on his chest, carefully as not to wake him. She grabbed his old t-shirt and snuck out the door.

Hearing the coffee drip into the pot, she walks back to the kitchen. Cringing at the unbearably cold floor, she can hear him stir. She knew he would wake at the aroma of coffee; she placed two white porcelain mugs on the counter and poured the steaming dark liquid. As she turns around, she sees him heading to the bathroom, grunting and mumbling.
Maybe he isn’t used to this; he probably forgot I was even here..
She leans on the counter, waiting for a sign. She can hear the water running and rapid splashes. She lets out a small sigh and walks out onto the patio with mug in hand. Breathing in the cool morning air, she tries to recall how this had started. It is all so blurry to her; it had started with quick glances to coincidental encounters and next thing you  know, they were caught up in each other’s lives.

She gives a quick jump as she feels a hand wrap around her waist. She stifles a giggle as she turns around to face him. She notices he found his mug and smiles. She never noticed how light his eyes were but with the sun shining directly onto both of them, she noticed that they were a shade of honey: golden and sweet. He gives her a quick peck on the forehead and takes out a cigarette. As he lights it, he motions for her to sit down with him on his new patio chairs. She obeys. There are not too many words exchanged as they both sit there and enjoy the unusually warm weather. He holds out his cigarette and she takes a drag. She feels the smoke swirl within her mouth and warm her lungs with a small explosion. She lets out a sigh. He takes one last drag and throws it into the tray. He stands up and stretches his arms and she watches his shirt lift up revealing one of his tattoos on his back. While he is standing, she stretches out her tanned legs and puts her mug down. He walks over her legs as he heads back towards the kitchen. From the patio, she can hear him taking out the frying pan and various dishes.
I wonder if I should stay any longer; he hasn’t said a word about it but it wouldn’t be right to bring it up so suddenly…I wish he could bring it up himself, it’d be better that way…
She heads back in and places the mug in the sink. She looks around and realizes he already has the scrambled eggs on two plates; the slices of bread are in the toaster; the salt and pepper is set on the counter already. She is impressed at his efficiency and refills his mug with coffee. As she does this, he flashes her a quick grin and throws the pan into sink. He grabs her and lifts her up. Her ponytail comes loose and her hair falls across her face, blinding her from his face. He places her on the barstool and sits down beside her. He picks up a fork and begins to eat. She follows him and eats obediently. No words are exchanged, only the sounds of metal scrapping against the milk white porcelain dishes.

“By the way, you look good in that shirt. Keep it if you like.”