she swore she would never do it again, through labored breathing; and with each puff he envisions her insides her swelling lungs, tar filled and stained. "Another drink?" She asks. "No, I've seen dimmer lights," he says. And they suffocate the room with silence. He stares out the window into the darkness of evening. "I had a vision, a different one. Neither of us had labored hands." "I don't understand," she says. "Like this table, it's too sturdy, and this door has too many locks. And you, too many scars." "You think too much," she says. At that, he exits the room as dawn begins.