She took a hard pull from her cigarette, but that's not what she was hungry for. It didn't matter though. It was something. Anything. She stared at the cherry in the darkness, then flicked it all away, sending it spinning into the night. She took her drugs where she could find them now. Mini-highs to stave off the hunger for the real ones.
Leaned back against the cement stairs and waited for him to come along, a quiet tide, a little darker than nighttime. A dream. A nightmare. A fix packaged in a body made of sinew and guts, blood and brains. She knew he hated it when she smoked. That's why she did it. She knew he hated a lot of things that she'd never give up. Not for him. He wasn't the answer, just a fix.
She felt a wave of him; the first wave. The one that told her to get up. Go to the page and listen. Record. She wasn't a writer, she was a cipher. His cipher and while he was born of her...he had his own life. They all did. And when she was immersed, it was as good as any fix. But the fix ended. It always did, leaving her spent. Too tired for more than a smoke, and maybe some music.
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