Hazy Days

"He's a dog, Victoria," Joel mutters and rolls his eyes. "He'll shit it out eventually. I don't know why you're even worried, dogs eat weird shit all the time." Did you forget who gave me this dog, Joel? Who's the one responsible for him being here?

Instead, I tell him fine. Whatever. He gets back to measuring something that looks like powder and sweeps some into individual baggies. I watch him until it makes my stomach feel queasy then decide to take a nap. My shirt rides up as I lie down and I see the yellowing bruises on my hipbones. I press my fingers against them and the soreness doesn't even bother me. I'm like that for a few minutes until my legs stand me up and in front of the mirror on the back of the door. I strip down to my bra and underwear and in the dim light, it looks like every bruise and cut I've ever gotten are visible. The one where Joel used a shard of glass from a broken beer bottle is finally, finally starting to scab over on my neck. My eyes dart to the upper right side of the mirror, to the picture of Joel and me. It's from one of those photo booths, with three little photos on the strip of film. God, this was, what... three years ago? In the first picture is us sticking our tongues out; the second, we're looking at each other and still smiling; in the third, we're kissing. I smile the smallest of smiles at the overwhelming flood of happy memories.

"Babe, I'm goin'," Joel shouts through the door. The good memories are quickly forgotten and I start to cry.