very long time. My hands shimmy as I reach for the bindle
Robyn passes me. It’s different from the meth making the
rounds last year. This is hard little rocks and not much powder.
Robyn pulls out a glass pipe, but I ask, “Can we do some
lines?” I long for that punch to my sinuses. The one that
hard-core users can no longer handle because of the gaping
sinus-cavity holes. Trey gives me a strange look, and Robyn
says, Jeez, it has been awhile since you’ve used, huh? You
can’t snort glass, Kristina. You have to smoke this…or
shoot it. You’re not into needles by any chance, are you?
Trey laughs at my over-the-top horror. Needles? No way.
And, apparently, no fine white lines to watch disappear
into my nose. “Is it all like this now?” I ask, ignorant.
Trey answers with a shake of his head. You can still
find street-lab crank. This is Mexican meth, as
good as it comes, maybe 90 percent pure.
It’s pricey, of course. And worth every damn penny.
How much is that, I want to know, but before I can query,
Robyn drops a sparkling rock into her pipe. She lights
a Bic, holds it well under the glass, and a fine plume of
methamphetamine smoke lifts to greet her open mouth.
&nbs
p; The pipe travels next to Trey, who indulges, then passes
it on to me. My hand trembles, anticipating treasure.
Long-lost treasure. One slow, easy inhale sparks little
explosions inside my brain, firing directly into the pleasure
center, igniting ecstatic bursts from eyebrows to toenails.
Trey was right. Whatever it costs, it’s worth it. I want
to feel this great all the time. With one hit, the life I have
worked so hard to make normal perverts itself again.