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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