The phone is ringing. It won't stop ringing. The pick up and drop of the receiver to and from the hook. The ear piercing ringing, the turning of her back on me.

The final answering voice muffled through the earpiece. The hushed discussion, my hands grasping for her antsy body. Her refusal to let me close.

A earth shattering gasp, the spinning of a torso. Her portrait worthy beauty washed with anger, with betrayal. Betrayal by omission.

Her face, the terror in her eyes. Her safe haven for irises barred and chained with grief.

"How could you do that to them?"

I go to speak but my vocal chords are held by hesitation, denial of the truth at the feet of a goddess, blasphemy, a crime with the most severe of punishments, a lifetime of no Sunshine.

"You killed them. How could I love a dictator of destruction?"

My eyelids are ripped open as scattered breaths tear my chest open. Nausea spills through my system, the swirling of my insides seemingly terminal. No cure for the guilt I carry. No treatment for the shame I burden. No antidote to the darkness I stumble through. I suck in sharp gusts of air to feed my deprived lungs. The cold atmosphere was suddenly disturbed by warmth. I feel it wrapped against my body, rays of sunshine draped down my side, fingers dance lazy circles across my chest, hiccuped breaths fan down my shoulder.

Light, breezy.

Sunshine.

I slide her arm off my chest and untangle our legs, slipping from the comfort of covers and darling details to freezing floorboards and acrid alcohol.

Heavy, whipping.

Storms.

The creaking beneath my feet is the pathway to a cabinet of carelessness. I tug at the knob of the wooden cupboard to reach for a bottle, the last bottle. Ginger rustling stops me dead in my tracks, my pursuit abandoned.

""I can't be around a drunk, I can't do it. My mother-" Her vulnerability halted by hesitation.

I tighten my grip on her, stealing her away from hesitation, "I'm trying. I am."

Her words toss around in my head, the sun pokes through the storm clouds.

"Trying and actually doing are two different things."

A rainbow forms, iridescent splashes of color spread across the ozone's canvas. The beauty of a settled storm.

I quickly shut the door and step over to the fridge, scanning the empty shelves as the white light illuminated my sour state. An artificial lamp to guide me through a narrowed route, a distraction.

I will not try, I'll do it. No more distractions. Brilliant blazes of bright light will wrap around the horizon and drag me through the dark, warm meadows of lush green grass and amber waves dusted with sunshine will be my destination.

The quiet creaks under tiny toes and nimble legs, walking sunlight. A steady beat of drums and a smooth voice tumbles from the record player, an anthem of attraction.

Oh, Pretty Woman, indeed.

I catch a sweet sway of hips and a frisk of fingertips against her skin. The skip in her step, the joy in her jive. Starlight never shined so bright, only the sun dims despair so well.

Her twirling delivers her to her destination, arms brought around my waist and lips planted on my shoulder--sugary sanctuary, rapid relief.

"Mmm, the sun isn't awake yet," her muffled voice casts down my shoulder blade. The humidity of her breath catches on my slicked over skin.

"Yes, she is." I whisper as I continue to search for an absent source of sustenance.

'Tiff's it is,' a fabricated memory bubbles to my brain's surface. Pancakes, chocolatey, fluffy, safe. Light, breezy. Sunshine.

She steps around to stand in front of me--her tired eyes longing for rest, her hair tangled into lovingly locked curls, lips pursed out of concentration. She's always concentrating, thinking about something, her head a home of repeated reflection, obsessive overthought.

Any good writer reflects, and she's a brilliant writer. Her perception of life is reflection--reflections of beauty, reflections of monstrosity. And she's a brilliant writer, any good writer reflects.

Her hands find mine, my spine sparking with spectacular shivers. Light, breezy movements pull me away from the fridge, its luminescence spilling onto the floor from the ajar door.

Spins around the kitchen table, glimmers of electricity cast across her shape just right. Heavy-eyed dips and words mouthed through twinkling teeth.

"'Cause I need you, I'll treat you right. Come with me, baby, be mine tonight." Her humming plushed through pecks on my jaw.

Pillowy presses, glass coated stares.

"Pretty Woman, don't walk on by," She sings out sleepily as she steps back from me.

Warm smiles, sweet snickers.

"Pretty Woman, don't make me cry," Her hands trace her figure as she swings her hips, her eyes dead locked on mine.

Bedroom eyes, sensual slips of the tongue.

"Pretty Woman, don't walk away, hey, okay, if that's the way it must be, okay," her arms toss up into the air through a wild whirl.

Casually charming, cautiously caring.

She reaches out for me, guiding me through a goofy waltz. Her hands never still, always traveling somewhere else--her hair, my shoulders, her hips, my cheeks.

She wraps her arms around me, pulling me close to rest her cheek on my chest, "It's okay. I have them too."

The insight of numbing nausea and grief stricken screams manifested in nightmares forces an ache to seep deep into my love muscle, the notion of gasping for air and cold sweat coated mornings drags a knife through my arteries.

Her terrors, her joys, her disappointments, her passions. Her head filled to the brim of unconquered dreams and invincible ephialtes. Her reflections, her perceptions.

"Pretty woman," I mutter down to her.

Dancing in refrigerator light and kisses in the kitchen, not a wink of sleep earned as we watched the sunrise and its rays ravage the skyline.

A sight to behold--mangled swirls of sunshine, fiery roots, floral irises. Nature's beauty. An art piece to hold close--thin features, soft skin, freckles to find. Natural beauty.

Twisting telephone cord through tight embraces, orders through dangerously distracting doe eyes. Rushing to bring home sugary sweets. Rushing home to a dream, rushing home in hopes it's not just a dream.

No deep discussion, only playful banter. No push to plow through my sulci and nip at my neurons. Syrupy sentiments punctuated with sticky kisses. Forkfuls of fluff, mouthfuls of mush.

Light, breezy.

Sunshine.

"Best '70s Album of the Year?"

"Rumors."

"What year?"

"'77. Too easy."

Locked lips, handfuls of skin. Friendly flirting, gushes of gusto. Mutters of melodrama, taunting touches.

Light, breezy.

Sunshine.

"Album that should've won but didn't?"

"Kind of Blue, Miles Davis was killer."

Spinning records, spinning bodies, spinning minds. Hard, fast--rock. Soft, slow--jazz.

"She steals like a thief."

"She hides like a child but she's always a woman to me."

"Crazy he calls me. Sure I'm crazy, crazy in love I'd say."

"I say I'll go through fire and I'll go through fire."

Light, breezy.

Sunshine.

Lustful, longing, lingering, fucking Sunshine.

Crazy, catastrophically catalyst inducingly crazy.

"It's okay, I have them too. Don't illuminate me until you're bright enough."

Illumination never felt so close, so easy--and yet too far in the dark.