Monday, November 15, 2010

Fiending

I told her that I didn’t have any 20s. No 10s, 5s, or 1s, either. I mean, I have a credit card and I live in a bad part of town, but before I could even explain, she was darting around the house like a mad-woman. First, I had no coke, then, no bills, I better at least have a straw or it was freak-out time, apparently. She spent a few minutes digging through my kitchen drawers, throwing plastic bags and twist ties on the floor like so much dirt covering up a juicy soup bone. She maintained, with startling ferocity, that she didn’t need the coke exactly. She was just drunk as all hell and needed a good nose hit. I jokingly suggested some salt and she absent-mindedly agreed, still digging. I didn’t take her seriously until she came back with a pack of ramen noodle flavoring, the elusive straw and the goofiest grin. Seconds later, her head snapped back up from the coffee table, her eyes read and watering, her mouth still forcing that goofy fucking slack jawed grin. I don't hang out with her as much nowadays.