It wasn’t supposed to turn out this way. All the drool collecting in a pool on the glass table as he sits slumped over thick with sleep, twenty-eight years old and bottom of the barrel. That’s all that’s left. I sigh and rise from the table, picking up the mixed-matched dishes- our dishes, from the table as the vermillion curtains twitch in the breeze. We can’t afford to keep the air running much, so we try to have the windows open as long as possible. And then maybe a little bit longer. We’re both pulling three jobs apiece just to hang on to this dump, a one bedroom apartment in a semi-safe neighborhood; they raise the rent every year just because they can. Sleep is a vicious lover that sweeps in and takes us hostage whenever she can, which usually isn’t very often. When she comes by, we don’t argue.