Guilt Trip
sitting on my couch,
a bottle of Four Roses in my hand.
Emily next to me.
“how are you?” she asks.
“better now that you’re here.”
“heard you’re working now. escaped
the cooking and selling drugs business.”
“I did,” I say with regret. “I’m a 9 to 5 guy
now. minimum wage bullshit, trying to
survive paycheck to paycheck.”
“why?”
“because it made no sense cooking glass and rock anymore.
it stopped being fun after a while. besides, I wasn’t
making money out of it, I was blowing it all on
heroin and booze.”
“you could have quit using, stayed with cooking.”
“what’s the point? the point is getting high and having fun.
otherwise, it’s just a job like any other.”
“you’ve always hated the idea of working.”
“I still do. it’s why I always quit, or force them to fire me.”
“why do you do it then?”
“because I refuse to live under a bridge, yet.”
“there’s someone new in your life, isn’t there?”
“maybe.”
“is she nice?”
“she’s quite nice, yes.”
“are you in love with her?” some resentment entered her voice.
“no,” I said truthfully.
“do you love her?”
“no. and definitely not the way I loved you.”
“you need to move on.”
“never.”
“you must.”
“would you? if the situation was reversed?”
“probably not. but you’d want me to.”
“I would.”
“then?”
“I can’t.”
“you must.”
without thinking, I lean over and try to kiss her.
she evaporates and I’m stuck with nothing but
a half-empty bottle of Four Roses and the memory of an
acid trip gone bad.
