To L. with Apologies

Part the First:

When I think of her nowadays, I always have this fantasy: we are shooting
together. I had just scored on Jerome Avenue in the shadow of the
Armory. It is a dark night and she is wearing leather. Her hair is shorter
than I remember. She think it makes her look tougher. It’s raining and
we sit in my car by the reservoir. She tells me that it is better than sex. I
mumble something about blow jobs. She says that all men are the same.
I tell her all women are cunts. They never know what they want. She
tells me to shut up and shoot.

Part the Second:

I think back to earlier that night. I hadn’t seen her in almost two years. I
told her that I was happy to see her. She replied that if I really was happy
to see her, I would get her some stuff. What is it this time, I asked. You
know the usual, she replied. I said sure and told her that I had stopped
drinking right after she left me. I bet you found Jesus, she sneered. No, I
told her, just a better fuck. Then she slugged me just like she used to. I
told her to put on her jacket.

Part the Third:

She never understood why I would rather get drunk instead of shooting
up. I never understood why she was so jealous. She always thought that
all her friends and I wanted to fuck. Sometimes she thought we did. I did
sometimes fool around, but never the old in and out. And anyway, she
never wanted to fuck, she’d rather mainline. But I never really fucked
anyone else until after she left me. She always thought that I thought
that she was ugly. There was never anything I could do to prove
otherwise.

Part the Fourth:

She asks me what I’m thinking about. The same old shit, I tell her. It’s
the Bronx, she screams, it’s always the Bronx. I ask her if she wants me
to drive south, to drive her home. She asks me if she can have my share
of the stuff. Sure, I reply. Go ahead and kill yourself I tell her. She tries
to stab me with the syringe I had just given her. I grab her arm and pull
her close. I say up to your old tricks again. Then I kiss her. Do you want
me, she asks. Sure, I reply. You bastard, she screams and sticks the
syringe into my arm. Somehow she manages to hit a major vein. Shit, I
think to myself right before it hits me.

Part the Fifth:

I always have this fantasy nowadays, when I think of her.

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