Harry woke up and poured himself a glass of whiskey. It was his first in six and a half days, but he swallowed it quickly and without remorse. The heat of it seemed to melt the oily film of his dream until he was only left with the bitter aftertaste of her memory. He took another drink until he could no longer see the shape of her breasts under her pink silk nightgown or the tendrils of chestnut hair that had blanketed her shoulders.

He stared at his sorry excuse for a face in the dusty mirror and scowled at the black circles around his sunken eyes. How she could have loved him, he didn’t know. In a way, it still felt like she was there, a shadow behind the empty façade of his life. Mocking him, pitying him.

It was just his imagination, Harry knew. She’d left him, unable to tolerate his erratic behavior, his drunken outbursts, his utter uselessness. There was nothing left of her but regrets.

And then he saw on the corner of his dry mouth, the bright red imprint of her lips.