I had manically cleaned the entire apartment, disinfected every surface, swept and mopped the floors, washed and folded all the laundry, scrubbed the spot behind the toilet that no one ever dared to touch, and polished the few remaining wineglasses that had not yet been broken.
Jack and I went for a run around the lake, and I smiled and nodded toward each person we passed as Jack manoeuvered heavily a few paces behind me. He lost his breath easily, and we stopped multiple times so he could smoke a crumpled joint he pulled from the inside of his left sneaker.
I fed off the sunshine, and Jack fed off of me. I relished my role, smirking at him. “What’s the matter, old man, can’t you keep up?”
I was the gatekeeper of warmth.
When we returned to my apartment, we opened a bottle of wine and sat on the plastic patio furniture in the backyard, basking in the glow of the yellowed sun.
“What’re you painting now?” I asked, topping up his glass.
He lit a cigarette and exhaled a line of smoke with his head tipped back. “I’m working on a piece about class repression.”
“What does it look like?” I wondered how that might be represented in an abstract painting.
“I’m experimenting with darkness and light.” He shifted in his chair, shielding his eyes from the sun. His hand created a shadow that spread across the bridge of his nose. “Shapes that don’t really fit together. Movement that doesn’t go anywhere. Stuff like that.”
“Interesting.” I glanced around the yard. The budding lilac tree filled the air with a heady cocktail. I felt intoxicated by its sweetness. I leaned against the headrest and sipped my wine.
“So, should we call our guy?” Jack asked after a few moments of silence.
I grinned. “Definitely.”
It didn’t take long for the dealer to pull into the driveway. Jack climbed into the passenger seat while I sat in the living room, watching through a slit in the curtains. I always worried something might go wrong.
The car door slammed and I heard the faint call of Jack’s goodbye.
He barrelled through the door, holding a little baggie of white powder between his thumb and forefinger, shaking it back and forth.
“Who’s ready to get fucked up?” he shouted.
I threw myself back onto the couch, launching my feet into the air, kicking wildly. Jack sat down next to me, grabbing my legs and placing them in his lap. He retrieved the scales from the drawer in the coffee table and weighed a dose for each of us.
“I’ll get the toilet paper.” I hopped up and ran into the bathroom, grabbing a roll from the cupboard. I returned, tossing it at Jack.
“Thanks, baby.” He wrapped the white powder in a piece of paper, twisting the top like a tiny present as I settled next to him, extending my hand.
He placed the drugs in my open palm. “Cheers.”
As I popped it in my mouth, I willed it to stay intact. Despite my hopes, the toilet paper cracked, and the bitterness of the MDMA hit my tongue. I took a long gulp of beer, swishing it around in my mouth before swallowing.
“Why does mine always break?” I whined.
“Because you, my sweet little girl, are a rookie.”
The sun was beginning to set. Jack drew the burgundy curtains, sheltering us from the outside world. I lit two cherry-scented candles to mask the smell of dope and cigarette smoke.
My concept of time had disappeared.
“Do you feel anything?” Jack asked. “I think I’m starting to come up.”
It always began with a feeling of mounting anxiousness, then a pleasant warmth in my stomach. It was like I was in a car with a busted muffler that was hydroplaning. I felt compelled to share every word that flashed through my overfiring brain.
I was surrendering to the rapture when the urge to vomit struck. I ran to the kitchen sink, both hands gripping the edge. My shoulders convulsed as my head thrust forward, heaving. My fingers tingled from the cool, clinical feel of the steel.
Wiping my face with my sleeve, I faced Jack. He was tugging at the collar of his Velvet Underground T-shirt, and when he let go, it hung asymmetrically around his neck. I couldn’t stop smiling. “Yeah, I think I’m starting to feel something.”
I turned the music up even louder, the drums reverberating, building something inside me that I felt could only be alleviated with destruction. I jumped onto the coffee table. Jack followed. Dancing savagely, we thrust our limbs, leaping from the table to the couch to the chair, screaming along to the lyrics. The furniture slid and knocked against the walls as we hurled our bodies around.
The song ended, and in the silence, the energy in the room vanished. The space was dim, the candles burning, a bloodish-red glow emanating from the sofa. A slow song began. Jack extended his hand to me. “May I have this waltz?”
I reached for him and stepped close, wrapping my arms around his neck. He placed his hands on the small of my back, humming in my ear as we swayed. He smelled burnt, like something that had recently caught fire.
“Why don’t you ever talk about your father?” I asked, looking up. The blacks of his eyes had swallowed the green parts.
“It’s hard for me.”
“Well, do you feel like talking about it, with me?”
Jack was silent for a moment. “I guess.” He paused; he seemed to be searching for the right words. “Apparently he wasn’t a very nice guy. I don’t remember him, but my brothers were older, so they do.”
He spun me in a circle under his arm, pulling me back in close.
“He was pretty abusive to my mom. He was a mean drunk.”
He dipped me low, and held me there.
“Anyway, he got involved with the wrong people and ended up in prison.”
He pulled me back upright.
I wanted so desperately for him never to hurt again. I stopped. “Jack, I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks.” He looked past me. He was sucking on the inside of his cheeks, the concaves and ridges barbarically pronounced. “You know, I’ve never told anyone that before.”
I pressed my cheek against his, feeling the scratch of his stubble. “Well, your secret’s safe with me.”
Eventually, we flopped on the sofa, but just as we settled, the chemicals peaked again.
I jumped up. “Let’s do something to remember this night.”
I grabbed the pack of cigarettes from the coffee table, lit one, and passed it to Jack.
“Burn me.” I inched toward him. “So we’ll always remember.”
His smiling eyes darkened as he stood up.
“I want you to mark me.” I felt the drumming between my legs now. “I want to be only yours.”
“Are you sure?” he asked, taking a long draw on the cigarette and attempting to ash into an empty beer bottle. He missed and it landed on his bare foot.
“So sure.” Pushing up my sleeve, I presented him with my forearm.
“Okay, but if it hurts too much, scream ‘bananas’ and I’ll stop.”
Laughing, I bent to brush the ash from his foot. “Why ‘bananas’?”
“I don’t know, it seemed like a good safe word.”
The room was breathing, expanding and shrinking in my peripheral vision. I grabbed onto the sofa with one hand. “I’m ready.”
I felt the heat as he drew the cigarette close and pressed the tip into my soft skin.
I withstood the pain for a second, then recoiled, squealing and shaking my arm before blowing on the wound. I glanced at Jack, his gaze shifting from my arm to my eyes. The smell was horrible—like rotting beef in a frying pan.
“Fuck, that hurts.” I smiled. The throbbing between my legs had somehow connected with this fresh pain. The current travelled, pulsating from my forearm to my pussy.
“Good girl.” He stroked my hair, admiring his creation.