Re: the lighthouse, inside.
The lightkeeper lit people. Lighting people was what she did, and failing to do so would always be about her, at least in her own mind. But her statement that he was angry, that was something else, something that belonged to someone else, but that seemed to fit in this place, with this man that wanted nothing more than to be nothing, do nothing. Too tired to be angry, that was familiar too, and she fought with the buttons, giving up partway out of sheer frustration. She huffed, and the sound was pale and wan in the stygian darkness.
But nothing would bring the lighthouse down sooner. Nothing he could do. She shook her head, soaked hair making plinking sounds in the grimy water as it dripped. "Can't leave. This is me." Craggy and coarse, but she understood that much. The words were sorrowful, and it felt good to say it. To stop pretending that things were alright, and she knew that was selfish, making confessions to someone who didn't want the trouble. But concealment was day-in, day-out for the lightkeeper in the fall-down tower. This once, just this once, it felt good not to minimize. The light wouldn't warm him anyway, and there was little illusion to preserve in the dark, here, with a man that would be gone in moments.
She reached over, took his hand in trembling fingers that were cold as graves, and she turned the lock and shoved the door open and out. The cool night air didn't pass the door, even when it opened. Inside, the muggy damp remained, but the path of his escape allowed for some light, at least, fleeting. He wanted to be away, and the lightkeeper was incapable of not being warmed by others getting what they desired.
The lightkeeper was, for the first time, cast into a bright light. The moon and stars were blue in the firmament, and the light was too strong to keep out, even if the air remained stifling. The girl, for she was barely more than that, wanted very badly to be lit, and perhaps that made a difference in bloated towers made for corpses. For whatever reason, she was illuminated there, bedraggled and pale, dark circles beneath her eyes, undeniable sickness in his gray shirt. But still young, and she smiled a depreciating thing of a smile when he asked why. "You can at least pretend to want to." It wasn't an answer, or maybe it was, and the laugh banked on the walls around them, trapped, even with the door ajar. "Make you feel better? Kissing a dying thing?"