It was too much to yell her name, would hurt his head too much in this light, so he just threw the empty bottle at a tree. Plastic only bounced when it hit; he missed the shatter of glass, the sound so beautiful, each tinkling shard a fragment of the broken world falling away, but glass vodka was too much. It had long ago stopped being a pleasure. Longed for, sure, but too much. Too fleeting.
He ached for it now though, for her too. Where had she gone? Her coming back would be good—she knew broken pieces. Even if she was no better at picking them up than he was, it was good to be with someone who understood the sound of breaking glass.