Sometimes, she knows which nights will be the bad ones.
Her skin itches. Like tiny things are running up her bones, she imagines she can feel their claws snicking and catching as they make their way. Shoulder to shoulder, rib to rib, scratch-sliding down her hips, this is how she knows where this night will end.
She might reach for a cigarette, a textbook, her fingers might just open and close and open. Snatching, shaping the air's path, imagining molecules whistling all the way down when she abruptly drops her hands to her lap.
