"It´s not what you think," he said. "Rose, hear me out, please.".
I do not want to hear him, because it is exactly what I am thinking. Another date with Mr. Poker, spending money we do not have, being beaten up and being kicked out in the worst way possible. I could see the marks of ten fingers around his neck and the boots of someone on his face, like a tattoo.
Since the first day I met Adam, I knew he was crazy, but I never expected to become crazy for him. It was like we were dancing on the top of cars and the sky only existed to watch us living. But, one day, the music finished and the sky only existed to show me that rain can also be born in my eyes. 
"Why again?" I ask, heartbroken.
"There isn´t a why, Rose," he answers. "It is like loving you, an addiction.".
See, he always answers like this and it is the only thing that makes me believe in "always", sadly.
He starts to walk towards me. I am cooking and he puts his finger in my future culinary disaster.
"Can I taste it?", he asks.
"No, you cannot.", I answer with my mad voice.
He is stubborn and he does what he wants, no matter what I say. Maybe I am broken, in every meaning of the word, because he is such a free spirit that it does not allow me to be one.
"You are beautiful, like always," he says, while he touchs my golden hair.
He tries to kiss me, but I slap him, when I start to think about all the mess that I am and all the mess he has caused.
"How many times do I have to tell you to stop? You are spending our money in such a useless way! Snap out of it, Adam!" I say, my mouth expressing all that my eyes were yelling for a long time.
He alks away, a man version of Cinderela who did not lose the shoe and has to run away when things get rough and not only at midnight. The main problem is that I will always pick up the shoe and I will run to give it to him with my heart, like those promotions: "two for the price of one".
I stop cooking and I am proud of myself, because I did not burn my dinner for the first time. I eat my chicken wings alone and I can just think that Miss Dion, singing "All by myself", is missing from my kitchen.
Our bed is waiting for me, but he is not. Eventually, the door opnes and he enters the bedroom with the silence that only dead people can make. He lays down and he says that he does not want to talk. He falls asleep and I fall for him, over and over again. Here is another "always" that I believe.