Tangle

She stands silently, looking down into her glass in an attempt to avoid eye contact with me. I lean against the kitchen counter on the opposite side of the clean white room. I haven't offered her anything to eat and don't intend to if she continues this chirade of naivety. I breathe in the morning air filtering through the window, only slightly ajar, and exhale deeply before pouring myself another drink. She has replaced hers on the countertop behind her and has retreated further into her own mind, gnawing silently at her thumbnail whilst her eyes glare, trance-like, into the clinical white floor tiles. The emptiness in the room doesn't register in my mind - my body pumps with alcohol infused blood, leaving my senses permanently numb.
     "How do you -"
     "I saw you both through the window."
     "I knew I shouldn't have let him come to mine," she mutters to herself.
I don't correct her with the fact that I saw them at his house; instead I stand receptively, and allow her to tangle herself in webs of guilt, as I remain the innocent party.