Written by George Gad Economou


it was supposed to be a relaxing night;

she arrived, I cracked a bottle of wine:

good wine, preserved for

a special occasion.

the occasion never arose, so I opened it anyway.

we sat on the couch, drank, had a smoke.

she opened her purse; it contained

blow, oxy, and meth.

“why the fuck do you have meth?” I asked.

“was going through a rough patch,

needed to escape,” she explained.

“we all go through shit,” I insisted. “but meth?”

“I hadn’t pegged you for a prude,” she snapped.

“just don’t get all paranoid on me, baby.

I’ll toss you out in the snow

to freeze your high, tight ass, okay?”

“fine,” she scoffed and stuffed her glass pipe with a smidgen of ice.

“hand me the blow,” I succumbed to my starvation.

she dragged long from the glass, the strong, noisome smoke

crawled up my nostrils and almost got me high.

I had a blow for my nose.

“you know we’re probably going to fuck something up tonight,

right?” I said, pressing down my palpitating heart.

“your place, your shit,” she guffawed like a baritone.

“great,” I rolled my eyes, snorted another line.

if I was to break my stuff, I had to get

high for free.

always a price to pay. fortunately,

she wasn’t getting paranoid.

she puffed on the pipe, the blue smoke

enveloped the room. she kissed me, thrusting

her tongue violently down my throat. her hand

slithered inside my pants, jerking brutally.

she climbed on my lap, kicking

the bottle down to the floor.

“jesus fuck,” I cried in exasperation, “that was expensive

wine, damn it.”

“it tasted like fox piss,” she kissed me, her hand squeezing my center.

“fine,” I yanked her shirt up, she tugged my pants around my knees.

she wrapped her legs around my waist, I held her up

against the closet. her head banged rhythmically on the

thin, cheap wood; it’s how the closet received its first, out of

many, holes. at least, this one was

worth the trouble.

we woke up sick and hungover; she smoked some glass,

I swilled some fortified wine.

she left to get her next fix, I sank another waterglass

staring at the hole her skull had created.

now, it’s concealed under Fitzgerald.

under him sit Hem and Beckett—they hide other holes

that have turned my cheap closet into Swiss cheese.

I stare at them, drinking a toast to them.

I never saw that woman again—every time I’m near a

methhead, I think of her, of how we

didn’t fuck anything up while we fucked.

time to bring out

the big guns. a fifth of rotgut; strong, neat, warm.

the wine of the soul.


Text © George Gad Economou



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