Skag

She’s an unusual girl. Her IQ score is 120. She’s precocious but, when it comes to men, she’s unilluminated. No man can resist her blue eyes, which sparkle like agates, or her perky double-D breasts, manufactured from the most renowned surgeon in town.
Desire is worn like perfume.
Lana Del Rey loops in the background.
“Babe, what do you think of these?” she asks and hands me three glazed photos of her naked: rubbing her clit, wanking a black strap-on off, and scissoring a baseball cap wearing blonde.
“I like the second one.”
“Do you think I look too much like a whore?” She pouts. “Or, is it whore chic?”
“I guess, whore chic.”
Bounce bounce bounce. She bounces off the sofa. Bounce bounce bounce. She bounces into the kitchen.
Her apartment looks like it was decorated by a pixie hooker, I think.

It’s a two-bedroom beachside loft—all-white walls draped with Tibetan prayer flags, a spray painted mural of an elephant, dildos strewed in various places, and an erected striper pole in the living room—hidden among trees. Acid and heroin are next to the carrots on a chopping board. An assemblage of clothes—lace bras and knee-high boots and gimp masks—are on the floor.
Cherry candles waft.
“Do you want some wine, honey?”
“Sure.” I say.
“It’s been a long day and we need to take the edge off.”
“From what?”
“Life.”
Pace pace pace. She won’t stop pacing, smoking, reevaluating the photographs for a respected lad’s magazine.
“None of these are right,” she screams.
Pew—she collapses onto the L-shaped sofa.
“Calm the fuck down, babe.”
“I look fat in this one. And a mega whore in this one”—she piffs the image at me—“and don’t get me started on—”
“Oh… I see… that’s definitely not a good angle of you eating… what’s her name again?”
“Marisa.”
“Right. Marisa’s pussy.”
Hiss-crackle—she butts out the cig and covers her face with both palms.
“I’ll call the photographer now,” she announces.
Skip skip skip. She semi skips into the bedroom.
Why am I here? I sigh. Like, this can’t be our lives. I’ve known her since we were 12 years old.
“So, he likes them,” she says, gliding in.
“Nothing to worry about then,” I say. I’m lying. The last time this happened—not defending her body—she cried for weeks. More Xanax, she’d requested.
***
Five hours pass. Buffy the Vampire Slayer plays as static background music.
“We’re going out,” I declare.
Drunk. Confused. Tired. “Why?”
“Because I’m so motherfucking restless and I need to get out of this house, which, um, haven’t we been holed up in here for, like, two weeks? I’m bored, babe. Let’s get fucked up.”
Yawn. She pours more red wine.
“There’s a warehouse party.”
Uh-huh. She ignores me. “YOU’RE A MUFFIN / TRYING YOUR BEST IN THE WORLD TO BE A MUFFIN,” she sings.
“GET READY.”
“Fine.”
Shuffle shuffle shuffle. “Do you want any speed?” she yells as she shuffles to the bathroom.
Zoink—I surge up off the couch and I slide into the bathroom. Snort. A kiss and a hug, I exit.
More wine. Toking. More waiting.
***
“What’s taking so long?” I ask as I open the bathroom door.
“Nothing,” she hisses. “Meow, I’m practically ready.” She’s sitting on white tiles, lacing up thigh-high boots. She’s wearing a miniskirt with frills and her makeup is dark—as if she were a lascivious raccoon.
“I need my lips done again,” she says.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” I pout—mocking her.
I light a fag and watch her apply her lip liner. I scroll and ash in the sink every thirty seconds.
Buzz buzz buzz. Her phone lights up; I pass it to her.
“Who is it?”
“Fuck man. I don’t know. Read it.” I snort more speed; I swallow three amphetamine pills.
Whimper whimper whimper. She’s crying.
“Babe, what’s wrong?” I ask.
Thud—she throws her phone and runs runs runs out of the bathroom.
I find her phone, slide it open, tap in the code, and start reading: “What the actual fuck. You agreed to pose nude again? Why didn’t you tell me? I had to find out from Mike? How do you think I feel? Not like you care. You only care about yourself. I can’t do this anymore. We want different things in life and this isn’t working out.”
Jerk, I think.
I find her in the kitchen, half nodding off. Using my thumb, I wipe the mascara tears and wrap my arms around her.
Wait, where did the lines of skag go? I wonder.
“Babe,” I place my palms on her shoulders. “How much did you snort?”
She glances up; smirks. “Don’t worry. Here, have some.”
Sniff sniff sniff.
Silence. Calm. Floating. Antipsychotic properties start to feel healing.
“I love you,” I say.
Sniff.