His eyes couldn't seem to decide which scene in front of him they wanted to focus on more. In rhythm, his gaze darted back and forth between the sleeping figure beside him and the scrolling blue of old-news headlines. Every image, every word registered with the kind of clarity only coming from adrenaline-fueled late-night wakefulness. Perfect eyelashes splayed on perfect cheeks, Supreme Court Decision. Steady breathing, eathquake victims. Silk straps sliding off pale shoulders, car bombing. He didn't care for either picture, really. They both were sensationalized beyond recognition- the prospect of a beautiful woman in bed with him far more glamorous than his current position really was. The women in his mind didn't sigh and mouth names in their sleep that weren't his; the police pursuit at 30 miles per hour wasn't called a high-speed chase. Sighing himself, he tried to gather how he has gotten to his present situation. Had his distaste for the figure beside him been building since he'd first met her, or had it come on suddenly, the inevitable late night epiphany of one who had been up too early, out too late, too busy in bed to sleep? Had the mixture of alcohol, cigarette breath, and cheap perfume stirred his senses to this point of realization? He hated her; he did, he always has. He resented her role in tying him to this room, their room; this bed, their bed; this television, this apartment; their whole existance and relationship together that he knew he would do nothing to alter. Did accepting the fact that he would live in hatred of her, their, his very existance make him more of a man than those who drive their cars off cliffs, or less?