We were positioned exactly as we usually are on a suburban Friday evening. I was perched atop the bath ledge, my feet crossed beneath me and my hand subconsciously offering a joint to my lips. I sucked hard as though I were a foal at the breast of its mother, each sharp inhalation of smoke more sustaining than any maternal offering. She was also engaged in a comforting act, draped as she normally was over the porcelain toilet with her long limbs strewn about her. Her skin was pale to the point of concern, and for a moment she was lost to the white of the toilet bowl. It was only after she roused to take another sniff that I was able to differentiate between the two. Raising an unsteady hand to her nose, she breathed in sharply and ignited a shudder in her spine which shook her fragile foundations. Through the fog of smoke her wild roaming eyes met with my own, and wiping a string of coke-flecked fluid from her nose she looked at me and smiled with blissful vacancy. “What a fine night it is to be young, thin and drug-fucked”, she slurred, as if one could ask for nothing more.
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