Lover I Don't Have to Love

Lover I Don’t Have to Love

Darting through the flashing strobe light, and cutting past alcohol’s dense haze, his dark eyes found what they were looking for. She was thin, nearly sickly so, and her mouth was tightly shut, eyes gazing past the bartender, into nothingness. His quick assessment of her frail body was interuppted by the distraction of her feet. Her shoes were bright orange and sloppily laced. That, along with her dirty, mismatched socks, one of which contained a mysterious bulge, was enough for him. He decided now to move in.
         He approached her slowly, a vague sense of nervousness creeping over him, although it was nothing close to the immense self-awareness that normally consumed him. The vodka had taken care of that.
         “I like your shoes.” He mumbled awkwardly, tapping her on the shoulder.
Her facial expression remained constant, sad and bored, but there were obviously thoughts flying behind her eyes. She knew what she was doing, she had been here before.
         “Thanks.” She whispered, not looking him in the eye. A slight pause, and then: “Can I follow you?”
         They consumed a few more shots, and stumbled their way through the sea of sweaty, writhing bodies. They found the exit, and heaved simultaneous sighs of relief at the cool, fresh air outside, penetrated only by a cluster of teens outside the club, standing around a red can of gasoline.
         Dim yellow streetlights illuminated the alleyways, flickering, reflecting off puddles of rainwater. The moon was a sliver in the sky, casting beams of liquid silver down to Earth, mixing into the foggy haze of light.  The two of them felt overwhelmed slightly, unable to focus their silent stare on any one object, instead drowning in an ocean of color. They didn’t speak to one another, too lost in their own steady stream of thought to converse. He craned his neck upward and gazed in awe at the towering height of the miserable gray office buildings around them, while she in turn, stared down at the water molecules splashing over the orange of her feet.
         “This is my building.” He muttered, finally. She said nothing, and they quietly stepped inside.
         The apartment complex was musty and dark, the walls a damp brown, and cracked, with litter scattering the floor and cobwebs dangling from the ceiling. They climbed the clanky metal staircase, a little bit quicker now, with the vague chemical anticipation of what was soon to happen.
         Still entirely silent, he marched to the refrigerator, and found a half-empty bottle of cheap wine. Pouring it into a couple of glasses, he got the first real look at her. She was ugly and beautiful and everything in between. Her stringy blonde hair was strangely pretty, dripping down her bare shoulders. Oddly shaped scars accented her ghostly pale skin, and her slender body was somehow stunning. But, the thing that made his heart skip was the intensity of her eyes. Infinite and a perfect shade of deep blue, they were gorgeous and terrible; they had obviously seen too much. He felt entranced, but slightly uncomfortable gazing into them, as if he were looking into something he was not supposed to be seeing. She was so beautiful. He started to sweat. The long-neglected romantic impulse in his brain was suddenly awakened. Maybe this time it could be more…
         Handing her the glass, he asked her name, hoping it was as beautiful as she.
         “What time is it?” She asked, blatantly ignoring the question, and refusing to come close to his eye contact.
         His throat closed up, and tears of dejected anger welled up, despite himself. Well, he thought, if I can’t get her, I can at least get…
         After the wine, they decided to leave the apartment, preferring the shadowy veil of the street, and the chaos of the club. His adrenaline rose, as he sank into the warmth of her touch. She pressed her hands against the rough denim of his jeans, and smoothly connected their faces, her tongue exploring his stubble and gliding over his vodka-soaked lips.
         “Let’s go back to the club.” She slurred, gesturing down the block.
         “It’s fucking closed.” He answered back. “Let’s just…go…whereever…”
         So they wandered down the maze of the city, and wandered down each other as well.  Finding themselves in the underground tunnel of a parking garage, their lust carried them to a dingy parked car, rusty and maroon. She fumbled with her keys, and ripped the door open, collasping inside on the backseat. He followed closely, closing the door behind him.
         The majority of clothing was removed, when he remembered something.
         “Hey,” he whispered, “I’ve got these pills. They make this whole thing way fucking better…”
         “Lovely.” She replied icily, and even drunk he could sense the sarcasm. “You’re going to fucking date-rape me. Awesome.”
         “No!” He argued honestly. “No, why would I take them too, why would I tell you if-”
         “It’s alright.” She gave a dry laugh. “I really don’t give a shit what you do to me.”
         Shrugging, he reached down into his jacket pocket and produced a plastic bag, half-full of little capsules. They each took a generous quantity, and continued touching and being touched, and the chemicals soared through them, and they just let it all happen.
         Hours, maybe even days or weeks passed, and they woke up, happy, confused, and naked in his apartment. They looked at each other, and didn’t even share that moment of mutual realization and regret. They shared mutual apathy.
         “Do you want breakfast?” He asked tentatively, getting as close to a polite smile as he could.
         “No.” She answered listlessly. Ideas of small talk coursed through his mind, but hers was elsewhere.
         “Where did you get those pills?” She asked curiously.
         “Some kid I met at a concert or somewhere.” He replied back, hoping he was thinking of the right guy. There were so many dealers…
         “Here, I’ll give you his number.”
         As he recited out the digits that had become more vital than any of Social Security or Master Card, he thought about the kid, the first time he’d bought anything from him.
         

The thick summer air made it hard to breathe, but the inhalants made it harder. Sweet, fiery fumes stung his throat and brought clear, runny drool to his mouth. Taking one last deep breath, he threw the can of paint to the ground, and watched the liquid spill out and stain the sidewalk. Feeling heavy and tired, he trudged into the depths of the parking garage next to the club. Trying to focus and prepare himself for the terrible pounding headache following the high, he leaned against the concrete wall of the building, and slowly slid to the floor. He began to dimly hallucinate and his eyes slammed shut, when he heard a voice. A real one.
         “Dude, are you alright?”
         It was an uneven teenage voice, cracking slightly, but obviously past the peak of puberty. He looked up at the kid, dizzily waiting for the image to clear. The figure was short, dressed in dark, baggy clothes, and his hair was messily spiked up with gel. He wore glasses, but they were caked in layers of dust, and his face was spotted with patches of pimples and peach fuzz.
         “Yeah, I’m fine.” He slurred, trying to get his tongue to move in the right way.
         “Sick of inhalants yet?” The kid asked with a cynical, knowing smirk. He was sharp.
         “Yeah, I think I am.”
         “Try this.” The smiling kid suggested, handing him a plastic bag filled with little pills. “It feels good.”
         “I’ll give it a try.” He replied, grabbing the bag and standing up.
         Months and months had passed now, and he’d become almost friends with the kid. They talked about the latest stressors of their lives a bit, but overall, it was a buyer and seller relationship. He liked the kid, he was reminded of himself when he was in high school, but the kid did not keep close company, he kept bags of pills, and that was enough for both of them.
         

He snapped out of this bittersweet reminiscience, but far too late. Golden rays of afternoon sun were creeping in through the blinds, and she was gone. He stood up slowly and shook his head, in slight disbelief that his concept of time could be this pathetic. It had been bad for a long while though, he reasoned, at least 3 weeks. Or maybe 10 years.
         Walking over to the window, he picked up a half-empty bottle of brandy, and a couple of Vicodin, determined to drink away his hangover and forget the girl, too. He gazed down at the shimmering amber city, gulped down a hearty swig, and promptly passed out, leaving an ugly streak on the window where his face hit it and slid all the way down.