She held her hand up to the window and looked at the sun shinning through it. The translucent red between the bones of her hand made her wonder if her skin could turn to lava. It could. I’ve seen it.

  On the kitchen table she found my morning mess. I left the same one every day, a dirty coffee cup and a saucer covered in brown crumbs from my toast on the table, a butter knife with a slick greasy film and a teaspoon with a droplet of coffee on the counter.

That and the pile of laundry in the corner of the bedroom were her only ambitions for the day.

  She sat and stared listlessly into the blank air and pushed a crumb around the saucer. When the crumb had finished its’ third lap she let out a sigh and through the hunter green plate across the room. It bounced off the counter and skidded on the floor. It did not break, she did. She had breathed the same thing under her breath for a year and a half,

‘If I have to put up with one more boring day like this, I’m going to kill someone.” Today she did not make that pledge, instead she got up, showered and dressed, and went out hunting.