Impaired Vision

A deep inhale, the smoke filling my browning lungs and my nerves plateauing into a steady numb. A slow, practiced exhale of a stream of city smog, my contribution to our already grey skies. The after taste of bitter medication, my daily fix of cigarettes to clear my mind and block out my anger. Sometimes one stick a day, sometimes twelve in an hour. It depends.

A nervous bite of the lip along with a churning of the gut. Little goosebumps along my arms and an irritating strand of hair tickling my chin like a misplaced feather. Yellowed teeth tap dancing in my mouth- freezing from the cold. Feet hanging off the edge, butt hard from the concrete, eyes gazing out into the horizon of pollution.

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

For something that may never come. It's my every-evening routine to come out here onto this bridge and watch the traffic ease over the ledges, looking for answers in the never-ending trail of lights and echoes of blowing horns.

Be a Good Baby, Do What I Want.

Red nail polish, chipped into little squares on her dirty nails. It's kind of disgusting, really, but charming in a way. It's so .. her. Careless, fragmented, lived. She wraps her lips around the pipe and inhales into a choking cough, tears creep onto the edges of her lashes and she gasps for air. I take a long sip of wine, I'm almost done with the bottle. My words are slurred and emotions are heavy as I watch her hold onto the glass pipe like she's five and doesn't want to get lost in a crowd of strangers. Her hair falls over her face but she doesn't bother to move it, her eyes are glazed but she's still with me. I know her, and she isn't anywhere near where she wants to be.

She complains that she isn't hit enough, but still holds onto the pipe, "don't you have anything better?"

Her teeth are the shade of white only money can create. I wonder if her parents know she's here with me, or if she's even crossed their minds today. Her family's pretty fucked up. I never ask, but she sometimes slips a hint or two in our conversations, especially when it comes to her mom's anti-depressants. Oh well, they're rich, and money is a great distraction from a fucked up reality.

I like to think of myself as her escape, even though I know it's the drugs, really. At least she chooses to share her little heaven with me. She always comes to me when she wants something fun, she tells me that I'm the only one who understands her, even though I don't even know her last name.

We walk over to the swimming pool, as we always do when the cocaine comes out to play. Our feet dipped into the sapphire water, I watch her lower her key into the powder and then into her nostrils, the obnoxious snort that follows and the clearing of her throat. I've never tried cocaine because it scares the shit out of me, but I always give it to her. I give her whatever she wants and never ask for anything in return, no matter how hard it is to get some of the things she wants.

I kind of like her more when she's drugged up compared to when she isn't. She still doesn't say much, but she looks at me with that knowing. I don't want to over-think, maybe it's nothing. But it gets to me every time. More than what she wears, more than how she fucking makes me feel, it's that stare she gives me that lingers. It's like no other love I've ever had before, no fights about what time we're supposed to meet up, what we're supposed to be saying, how we're supposed to fucking live. Basically, no bullshit. Hell, I don't even know. It's just some kind of easy-going bond we have. We don't want drama, we don't want complications, we just want to drink wine, sit in silence, and share a sapphire-blue pool.