You rest your head against the cold radiator, knees to chin. You’re bundled up in the dressing gown you only wear when you're ill.
I'm sorry, you say again, but you flaunt the marks he left on your neck that replace mine underneath. You tell me how you left him with your number, scrawled in lipstick on his forearm like you seen in that film the other night.
I think of the marks you left on him and imagine them as bruises.