Morphine

A year or so ago, when she was with the Nerd, I followed her for an entire weekend. I spied on them through windows and from behind newspapers. Not much happened… She didn’t even go anywhere Saturday. I’m not sure if I felt bad, or if I was just bored, but I decided to call her.

“Hello?”
“Hey, is this---?”
“Listen ass-wipe, I can hear straight through the accent and the ‘hey, is this so and so?’ beginning is a dead give away. Why don’t you just hang up and save us both the humiliation?”
As asked, I hung up.

She is not like other girls.

She is a drug. Something you take to kill the pain. She is not the syringe. She is not the vein. She is the venom coursing through it.
And I am a junkie. I am addicted. I go through withdrawals without her.

Edmond calls after school to ask about the thing with Sarah. Nothing, I say, and ask about the Anti-Ball.

“Oh, yeah, I go like every year, man.”
“What!?”
“Yeah. They’re awesome! Huge local rockers and girls in black lace, beer, moshpits, sex… It’s pretty much the highlight of my year.”
“I never pegged you for a sex addict, dear Edmond.”
“’Dear Edmond?’ You been reading Hawthorne again?”
“Shakespeare, my good sir.”
“Shit,” he says, drawing the vowel out. “But fuck yeah, dude, you should come.”
“Thought so.”
“Gonna take Sarah?”
“No, actually. I think… I’ll go alone.”

But it doesn’t mean much. He doesn’t realize that I’m always alone. Does anyone?

The Ball is only three days and six hours away… But really, once you’ve waited a million years, what’s a hundred more?