Taking another drink of her sweet tea, she stood up and walked out into the stinging cold.
He followed like a ghost.
She started her old rusted car when the ghost tapped at her window. He didn’t have to say anything,she didn’t want him too. But his eyes whispered the exhaustion and terror of her leaving.
She rolled down the frosted window.
“I should be sorry, but I’m not. I should care about you, but I don’t,” her nostrils flaring the way they did whenever she was upset, “I’m screwed up, I’m sad and I’m screwed up.”
The ghost spoke then, his eyelids fluttered with hurt, as he glared into the eyes he stared into so many broken nights before, “I don’t want you to go, but leaving is your drug and your addiction is too strong for me to ask you to stay. I just had this insane theory that, I don’t know, I could be your rehab, your antidote.”
She left then. He did not cry though because she was right. She was screwed up, but he knew she was brilliant. That girl and her sweet tea. Brilliant.