We don't leave the room. We don't rise from the floor. The sun comes in and touches her bare shoulder. Kids scream at each other outside. Those deafening high pitched wails.

Whiskey is on my breath. It seeps from my pores. My hips burn and my feet are dirty from drunkenly wandering around the neighborhood last night.

What did this accomplish?

I turn the fan on. I pull at the hanging chain. It hums into motion. Blows smoke across the room.

She says something. What does she say? Something about how this is what she wanted. That even through the grime and scum and filth, this is what she wanted. I am what she wanted.

That even though the odds are against us, and loved ones have advised us otherwise, that even though I cause her intolerable anxiety, cause her ineffable amounts of pain, that I cause her to throw back prescribed medications in handfuls, I am what she wanted. I am it. I'm here.

So I kiss her. I curl up next to her. I lay my head on her Spiderman pajama pants and close my eyes.

And we continue doing nothing.

Saturdays in Dundalk.