"Are you explaining your funeral arrangements?" He put down the newspaper in his hand and raised his head to ask.
I didn't say anything, but I glanced at the suit lying on the sofa. I had ironed it myself yesterday.
Time is really a wonderful thing. Not long ago, I was begging for his forgiveness and even fantasized about us growing old together.
"Whatever you say, I just did my part."
"Are you part of it?" He quickly stood up from the sofa, stepped in front of me, and stared at me with his dark eyes, as if he wanted to see through me, "You can't wait to see that man so badly?"
He was only half a foot away from me. This distance was too dangerous. I couldn't help but take a few steps back and replied calmly: "I just want to be free again."
"Do you think you are still free?" He said this too quickly. During the conversation, he already had a cigarette on his finger, and sparks danced on his fingertips.
He didn't smoke before and said the taste of nicotine was strange. The more reason was that I couldn't stand the smell of cigarettes.
Since when did cigarettes become an indispensable item in his life? Maybe I know that the hopeless hatred in despair turns into smoke lingering in the dark night.
I couldn't help but wrinkle my nose when I smelled the choking smell of smoke, but I still raised my head and saw him reflected in the dim light. His handsome face had been sharpened by time, adding a bit of maturity.