Mar 94 min read
Broken In
It started with the bedspread. Red, threadbare—the kind of fabric that clings in summer, that snags if you move too quickly. You said it looked cheap, felt worse. But I watched your hand linger on it when you thought I wasn’t looking, stroking the roughness like it calmed something restless inside you. The first cigarette burn came on a Sunday. You were propped against the headboard in those boxers you always wore, waistband loose, curls spilling low. I remember staring, caug

