***
He meets her outside the lair in which she resides, blowing smoke rings and seeing upside-down kaleidoscopes. She has created a world for herself, from imagining things where they are not, where they should not be, and hearing only the inhale, exhale of the variety of take-me-away’s she has concocted for herself.
It is the imagination cocktail, and he didn’t care what he was selling to her until she doesn’t come to the door of her den, and so he knocks, and the door opens, and he enters. What else can you do?
She is spread across three beanbags, the only furniture in the room, and if her chest wasn’t consistently rising and falling, in a serene way that reminds him of the beach, he would swear that her glazed-over eyes are a surefire way to tell that she’s dead.
He approaches her and waves a hand back and forth in front of her face, until the world turns sideways and he finds himself on the ground, with hands clutching his throat and a girl straddling him, still blowing green-blue smoke into his face.
He coughs and sputters until she lets go. When he can stand up, he runs. That’s what he should have done. Instead he waits, leaning against the wall, until she is sitting in one of the three beanbags, waiting for him.
He takes out the package, with her name on it, and offers it to her. She holds out her hand, but he shakes his head and silently asks for money. It is over. She has none. She grabs for the package but he has already returned it to the lining of his coat. For a second, he looks into her tired and finished eyes, and almost feels sorry enough to allow herself to return to her created world, but he turns away and comforts himself. It’s better for her this way.
Of course he knows the pain she will suffer for the next few days. It is the pain of losing your life source, losing your sanity, and really, it feels like you are losing everything. He knows, he has felt it, until he was weak enough to return to begging for life, and that’s what brought him here. He needs this money, because he needs his life.
Halfway out the door, he feels sorry again. Really, it isn’t her fault. Maybe it used to be, but it isn’t now. He thinks about the money, and he thinks of what else he needs.
A few gasping shudders and bruising caresses later, she is panting heavily on the beanbag with purple sprouting up along her neck, and he is tugging up the zipper on his jeans. He nods, leaves the package on another beanbag, and suddenly feels the compressing tightness, a need to escape the smoke filled room and the girl with the glazed eyes.
She returns to her world, and forgets about the incident of the boy who came to deliver the package and left with something more. But later, many years later, he is sorry.
