“Is this where the daisies come to die?” She asked.

I almost didn’t recognise her. That golden sunlight once so prevalent now the murky yellow of a sweat stained t shirt.

I used to get drunk on those eyes. Now I look away. Cowering from their bloodshot rim and the glaze of rot.

Taking up my pen I mark the date, then the time.

“Yes.” My voice more confident than the acid churning in my gut. “He’ll be out shortly.”

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