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“You know what’s really good? Ritalin”

“Huh?” she replied. She was hazed from the downers they’d already consumed. “Ritalin?”. “Oh, yeah? I have like 3 of those.” “You do?!”, his eyes lit up. “Yeah, someone left ’em here”. “You never tried it?”. She thought back, “Well, a few months ago I did take one when I went out but I was all keyed up and argued with people. I assume it’s what someone on coke acts like”. “It’s really good”, he remarked, “we should do it”.

“Okay”, she hazily stood up and made her way to the bathroom.

She watched him, closely. Her boyfriend’s drug rituals seemed very similar but so minutely different that she had to observe them for future reference. He emptied the capsules into a small pile on top of a magazine, one of her magazines. She had stacks of books and magazines next to the mattress. She read often, almost as though reading were a drug in itself. She had never seen him pick up anything that could be considered literature if he wasn’t using it to take something. Sometimes he got angry, “This book isn’t smooth”. “Use that one” she remarked, handing him a different tome (a favorite), “the author actually designed the cover for this”. She didn’t think he was listening.

“Are you doing this or not?”

She realized that while she was recalling that, he’d proceeded to divide the pile into lines. “You know I don’t like snorting stuff”. He sighed, “This is how you do this. Are you in?”.

“Ugh”, she made a face, lifting her head. “Gross”. “Now you’ll have a nasal drip”. “That sounds awful”, she made another face. “Just wait”.

It kicked in

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