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-
though i wasn't meant
to hear that part