I stared up at the decrepit three-storey row house. A couple walked by, screaming at one another. “Fuck you, you fucking asshole.” The woman’s voice was shrill.
“Fuck you,” the man yelled back. “Good-for-nothing whore.”
“Can’t I just wait outside?” I asked, pulling a cigarette from a pack in my pocket.
“You’re going to look sketchy if you do that,” said Jack.
“Who cares?” I snickered, lighting the cigarette. “No one fucking cares. Everyone’s always afraid of looking sketchy.”
Jack exhaled and grabbed my arm, digging his fingers into my skin. “Can we not do this right now?”
“Fine.” I tossed my cigarette to the ground and pushed past him. I tried the front knob; it was unlocked in anticipation of our arrival.
We entered into a small porch with two doors: one to the left with the letter A, and another straight ahead labelled B.
Jack motioned to the second door. “It’s upstairs.”
As I opened it and ascended the staircase, the smell of dope hit me. The carpet lining the stairs had a pungent must, as though it hadn’t been replaced since the house was built, likely over a hundred years ago.
“Hello?” Jack called.
“Yo, in the living room.”
We reached the top of the stairs and followed the sound of the voice. Garbage bags were taped over the windows, and there was nothing hanging on the walls. The dealer sat on a ratty, ash-coloured futon. He had scraggly, greasy hair and was wearing a shirt full of burn holes. A cold sore on his bottom lip leaked clear fluid. The coffee table was lined with empty beer bottles. A box of baggies and scales sat in front of him. I felt I might catch a disease just being in the room.
“What can I do for you today?” he asked.
A cat sprang from the corner like a flying squirrel, caterwauling. I hopped out of its path. “Jesus Christ.”
The dealer didn’t acknowledge me or his cat. Dealers usually ignored me. I liked it that way. I wasn’t interested in interacting with them.
“We’re looking for some ecstasy,” Jack said.
“I’ve got some yellow guns,” he replied. “They’ll blow your head off.”
I wondered how many times he’d used that sales pitch.
“Take it easy, Señor Escobar,” I muttered under my breath. I wanted to tell him that in the grand scheme of things, he was so insubstantial it was almost heartbreaking. I wanted to yell that he didn’t fucking matter. Instead, I ignored his idiotic jokes as Jack unfurled some bills we’d rolled up to snort coke with the night before.
“Thanks, man,” Jack said as the dealer handed him a baggie.
“Anytime.”
I gave the room one final look before turning toward the hallway, sprinting down the staircase, and whipping open the front door. A sense of relief washed over me. It was humid and my clothes were starting to stick to my back. The evening breeze was refreshing.
“You’re a prick,” I said as Jack appeared.
“You’re fine.” He slapped my ass playfully. “Stop being so dramatic.”
“Fuck you, and fuck your half-baked Pablo.”
We walked quickly without speaking to one another. The less we spoke, the more we could focus on getting home, and the faster we got there, the quicker we could get high.
I unlocked the front door to my apartment. The walls were beige, the standard colour for most rental properties in the city. It was easy enough to paint over as people came and went without much notice.
I ran to the living room and plopped onto the couch. The two chairs alongside the sofa were old and ugly—grey and made of some sort of itchy material. I had purchased them at a thrift shop. It was all I could afford at the time. I never sat in them, only on the oxblood sofa, which I had inherited from my grandmother.
I unlaced one of my shoes. “Jackass,” I called, tossing it at Jack as he entered the room.
“Hey.” He leapt on top of me and began tickling my ribs. I squealed and thrashed, trying to wiggle free as I yanked the other shoe loose. I kept hold of it, hitting Jack on the head repeatedly.
I managed to drag myself to the other side of the couch as Jack ducked, dodging my blows. His shirt was unbuttoned a little too far, exposing his triangle of chest hair. He was glistening; tiny beads of sweat clung to his nose as he tried to pry the shoe from my outstretched arm.
“Stop,” he demanded.
“Make me.”
“Stop.” He was smiling, and that smile made me forget that anything else existed. It was just me and him. I dropped my shoe.
Panting, I stood up and adjusted my dress, which had twisted itself tightly around my legs in the struggle. I moved to the mirror and reapplied a coat of lipstick, wiping the lines around my Cupid’s bow with my index finger. Jack pushed his curls back before reaching into his pocket for the baggie.
“So, you still mad at me?” he asked, selecting four pills from the bag.
I grabbed two from his open palm, popped them in my mouth, and swallowed. “I won’t be soon.”
We’d planned to attend a party at Jack’s friend’s place. It was a space-themed funeral, in honour of the Mars rover whose batteries had died.
I had bought sheets of sparkly hot-pink foam paper and was sitting on the floor, busily cutting celestial shapes with a pair of kitchen shears, while Jack sat above me, rubbing my shoulders and chain-smoking. I was in the process of hacking the letters for Long Live Rover when I was overcome with sadness. Or maybe it was happiness. It was hard to tell. My head fell forward.
“Baby?” Jack dropped his cigarette in his beer bottle and leaned forward, placing his hands on my face. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know.” I looked up at him with wet eyes.
His pupils were huge.
“It’s just so sad.” I let my head bob back, moving my jaw in circles, grinding my teeth together.
“What is, baby?”
“Everything.” I was crying so hard I could barely breathe.
Jack moved to the ground and wrapped his arms around me.
Between sobs, I managed to say the words, “I just loved that little guy so much.”
Jack burst out laughing. The noise was like stepping into a warm bath and being submerged in water. “You are so fucking cute.” He kissed my cheeks, my forehead, my nose and chin. “And way too high to go anywhere.” Guiding my head into his chest, he laughed again. I purposely rubbed my leaking nose against him.
“Gross,” he screeched, using his shirt to dry himself. “You’re crying and snotting all over me.”
My tears turned to uncontrollable laughter and hiccups. I wiped my eyes and nose with my sleeve, and grabbed the baggie of pills from the coffee table. “Well, I guess since we’re staying in.” I popped two more, chasing it with what was left of my whiskey, before continuing to mash my wet face into Jack’s shirt.
“You’re sick,” he teased as he ducked away, a dark spot of moisture imprinted on the centre of his shirt. He swallowed a couple more pills and hoisted himself back up onto the couch.
I picked up my Polaroid camera and turned it toward Jack. His mossy velvet dress shirt was covered in sparkly planets. His hair was mussed from running his fingers through it repeatedly. Sitting on that oxblood sofa, he was bright and blurry among an endless sea of dullness.
Click. Whoosh.
Jack was watching me in silence, his mouth slightly agape as I floated aimlessly around the living room, grinding my teeth. I was moving in a stop-motion of sporadic jerks.
I approached him and climbed into his lap. He looked completely enamoured. I leaned in to kiss him and our teeth collided. Two rogue satellites barrelling toward one another, crashing and fragmenting. His tongue was dry and rough; all the moisture had been sucked from his mouth. He stood, and I wrapped my legs around him. He stumbled and we fell against the wall, knocking the mirror. It fell hard and fast, shattering as it made impact with the hardwood. He knew I was superstitious. Stopping, he stared at the cracked mirror.
I picked it up carefully, examining the damage. My face reflected in tiny shards. I threw my head back, bearing all my teeth. “Fuck!” I shouted.
“Fuck.”
“Fuck!” I turned to him.
“Fuck!” he shouted back.
We screamed “fuck” over and over at the top of our lungs until I dropped to the floor, grabbing the sparkly sticker paper. Ferociously, I cut the letter F and stuck it on the bottom of the smashed mirror.
“What are you doing?” Jack asked.
“Shut up.” I waved the scissors around. “You’re not the only artist around here, you know.”
“Be careful, lunatic,” he warned.
I howled, cutting the letter U swiftly. Then C. Then K. I returned the mirror to its hook on the wall.
I stood back to study my work. “Now, that’s going to be worth a fortune.”