The second day I was sitting in your best friend's room (more like your best girlfriend's, but maybe...

The second day I was sitting in your best friend's room (more like your best girlfriend's, but maybe I flatter myself), my back against her bed, while she and the two idiots gossiped. I read my book and brooded on your lateness, wondering if your Aunt was hassling you again for trying to have a life or if your boss kept you late because somebody else had died or if you were finally getting that massage I bought you for your birthday or if you were out buying me a present for mine.

I was reading the book you gave me. The one you'd read that had spoken to you, the one you thought I was "in." I hadn't found myself yet, but I thought that I'd found the me you think I am, and I wanted to cry, but how could I cry in a room full of these girls? The mocking would be too much for me. So I kept reading and hoped I was wrong, and that you think more of me than you probably do.

K—- was starting to worry about you too.

—Where is she?

The idiots didn't answer, and the silence told me the question was mine to answer. I kept reading.

—Hello. Why isn't she here yet?

—I dunno, I said, lowering my book in my best impersonation of politeness. —Probably something to do with J—-.

Heavily made up eyes rolled. I had to look back at my book. The condescension, the whole tale of their disapproval in one expression pissed me off all over again. Two and a half years of watching people treat you like shit, and I still get angry when people judge (I suppose that's an action I reserve for myself.)

—She'll be here.

That seemed to be enough for them because they were off gossiping about something else. I opened to where I'd left off and tried reading again, but couldn't get my mind off the ways I judge you. The way I judge your choice to let your Aunt take J—- during the day, but what the hell else are you going to do? The way I judge you for J—- 's Dad, but that is just my wounded pride talking. The way I judge your terrible cooking, and your practicality and your embracing of responsibility. The way I judge you for giving up your dreams. I judge all these things in quiet ways that you probably feel, yet I bet you never know how proud I am of you for making hard decisions that I am pretty sure I couldn't make.

Giggly squeels made me look up, and there was  a mirror sitting on K—-'s bed with a small mound of powder in the middle. One of the idiots flipped her nail against the bag to knock the rest of the powder loose, while the other idiot pulled out her Mom's credit card and started forming lines.

—Where did you get it?

—F—- left it out.

—So she took it.

—Oh my god! Does he know you have it?

—Not yet.

K—- reached past my head to her nightstand, opened the drawer, which contained a surprising array of sex toys, and pulled out a shiny metal straw. I dropped my book, got on my knees and really looked at what they were doing.

—Why is it black? I ask.

—We should use it all up. If we don't, F—-'ll just take it all back and sell it.

—Good idea.

—But why is it black? I ask again.

—F—- said it's because it's so pure.

K—- leaned in and snorted up a long, thin black line, then expertly wiped the dust from her nostril and rubbed it against her gums. Three lines disappeared. Three of eight. And the straw was passed to me.

—What is this stuff? I ask, taking the straw nervously.

—It's good! was the giggled response.

I stood up, leaned over and snorted a line too. My first time.

I don't even know why I am doing it; I know you'll just shake your head. The powder rips apart my sinuses and the taste buds on the back of my tongue choke on the bitterness. I cough and start squishing my nose against my face with the back of my hand, rubbing to tear my nose right off my face. The straw's right back in front of me like the body of Christ, clamped between the other idiot's gaudy nails. I didn't even know I'd given up the straw in the first place. I wave it off and choke out:

—Bathroom?

K—- points at her closed bedroom door, and off I go down the hall, the initial blast of discomfort giving way to a reeling unsteadiness. I wonder why gravity isn't working anymore.

Three doors later I am in the bathroom. The pressure on my anus is overwhelming. I have to shit. It's coming now. But the toilet, the bathroom, every fixture, all the space is miniature, or I'm a giant. I can't even reach the toilet to sit. I think I can aim, though. I hover my bare ass over where I think the toilet is, and I hope.

And that's when I hear your muffled voice in the hall and their more  muffled voices and giggles and then all the sound is faint after the thunderousness of a slamming door and then the muffled sounds come back and then there's silence. And I am still caught in midair with titanic pressure on my bowels, but nothing is coming and I can't move for fear of shitting myself or covering the bathroom in shit.

A year later, the pressure relieved, my skydump a success, at least I think it is, I slide back into K—-'s room. The corner of the book you gave me is peeking out from under K—-'s bed. The bed is crisply made, as though three giddy stoned girls hadn't just been sitting on it. The drug mirror hangs back on the wall, with the faintest of smears the only sign of its use. I stand still but I am at K—-'s window, parting the curtains just in time to see you climb in the back seat of K—-'s car.

The curtain drops. My eyelids snap shut. I can't imagine I'll see you tomorrow.

It was us those two days.