PTSD, the hooker and the vet

The wind pressed upon the windows with a creaking loose sound that could be heard with the ears and felt in drafts of cold late autumn. Our tea sat in a small pan on the stove that we kept refilling our coffee mugs with. Smoke drifted up from a cigarette I held between my thumb and index finger, our gaze was transfixed on the ceiling above the table, where a pool of smoke had gathered in a circle and moved around like a small hurricane, drafts and drifts from the windows and door-frame keeping it in place.

Sometimes we sat like this quietly just thinking about nothing verbalized. We'd sip tea or coffee, or sometimes soda or juice. Sometimes we'd have some toast or donuts, sometimes I'd whip up some frenchtoast or eggs, although neither of us was a big breakfast eater. There were so many moments like this that often we felt they were just extensions of the last time we'd sat and silently pondered each moment we'd been sharing, each sexual sticky-sheeted adventure.