Fiend

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So Typewriter John and I have spent the last hour lying to each other, faking concern, panic, and desperation, all the while helping the other look for the last hit. The thing is, we each know the other is holding on to an eraser-sized shard. It’s like a standoff, both of us wanting to be left the fuck alone for five minutes. Finally Typewriter caves, says he’s going to take a shit, which I know isn’t true because we haven’t eaten in close to three days.

I pull out the tiny bit of glass. Burn it. And it’s barely two hits and I’m spun bad, like from our weeklong bender, but this one really does it, because when I peek through the G.I. Joe sheets we’ve draped over the windows, I see a little girl playing with a dog. I’m thinking this is kind of sweet—this blond child crouching on all fours, inching closer to the dog, like maybe she’s playing a game of make-believe where she’s a dog too. But then I notice the dog is shaking. And it’s a big dog, a rottweiler, and he’s shaking, his head down, his tail covering his nuts.

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