The Trouble With Knowing

I wonder what she's thinking whilst she pretends to watch T.V She's sat on that same spot on the same sofa for more years than I care to remember gradually not caring about the seven long hairs that grow from her chin or the stains all over her clothing from last weeks dinner She sips her cider I watch She sips I ask: "where is he?" "He's in bed." She answers, not removing her eyes from the commercials. "Pour me another, will you? and open the window" She is almost robotic. I can see past the piss stained mess that has become her well enough to know she is scared as hell. I open the window The breeze bounces past my cheeks "He can't open the windows anymore" she whispered- "He can't do anything"