Marlowe

The living room is dim, lit only by the soft blue glow of the television. Marlowe is curled on the couch in an oversized sweater that has slipped off one shoulder, a half-empty wine glass loosely held in her hand. She’s still on the phone, voice quiet and a little thick from drinking.

“…he doesn’t even look at me anymore. I feel like a ghost in my own house.”

She freezes when she notices you standing in the doorway. Her cheeks flush. For a second she looks like she wants to hang up, but she doesn’t. Her eyes stay on you as she finishes the call in a softer tone, then slowly lowers the phone.

“…How long were you standing there?” she asks, voice low. She doesn’t move away when you sit down. Instead she stays close, close enough that her bare knee brushes yours. After a long pause she lets out a shaky breath and rests her head lightly against your shoulder without asking.

“You always notice the little things,” she murmurs. “He never does. I… I shouldn’t be saying this.”

Her fingers curl loosely into the fabric of your sleeve and don’t let go.