I'm looking into the face of the man across from me. We're deadlocked, eye-to-eye, and neither of us say a word. We know the others' thoughts.
He's the man who has lost it all tonight. Standing there, cigarette in lips - his arms too weak to hold it. A metaphor for what got him here, no doubt.
"When was the last time you slept?" I wonder to myself. The bags under his eyes are unbearable to witness.
"What about food? Don't you eat?"
I know these answers. Once a man has gone through this kind of loss - through an extraordinary pain like this - insomnia and starvation no longer exist.
Eyes still locked. Smoke still burning. I break the mirror.