Standing in the kitchen, the cold tiled floor cools my now warm body. Mother's glasses still sheilding my eyes, I look up at the smouldering sun and smile - a culmination of the knowledge that we're living in a decidedly determined heatwave; and the fulfilment that last night's antics evoked. I open the drinks cabinet for the umpteenth time this weekend, pull out a couple of bottles without acknowledging their contents, and mix them with a glug of coke. I pass her a glass, her thin fingers grip it tightly, she winces as the conconction trickles down her throat. Her beautiful dark eyes open, mouth stretches into a self-conscious smile as she notices my unashamed gaze.
"God, you take your drinks strong," she states, rubbing her tired eyes, "have you been eating properly?"
"Yeah," I mutter unconvincingly.
"I'm worried about you, An..."
I shrug and take a large gulp of my drink, then turn my back to her in favour of the kitchen window.
"I mean, wouldn't you be worried if I was -"
"Sleeping with Mark again?" I interrupt, my voice steady, measured so as to hide my jealousy.
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