A love story
Chapters with * next to the number may contain sensitive content.
WARNING: contains strong language, violence, sexuality, emotional trauma, drug use, and other content suited for mature audiences. Don't read if you're a pansy.
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When I said anywhere, I meant anywhere. When I returned from my shift at the bookstore, a job that payed me little above minimum wage, I suggested that we wander about the streets until we found something enticing to do. This seemed to throw Jude off guard, but I didn't exactly understand why.
In the rare, pleasant moments where I was free from all the commitments of my life, I would find adventure by just roaming the streets, not expecting anything, not afraid of the unknown. Some of my most fondest memories have happened by just aimlessly running through the streets, not attached to any person, place, or thing.
"Where?" He asked as he pulled out a cigarette to light.
I shrugged, throwing my arms into my denim coat. "Wherever." I responded, grabbing my keys off the counter.
"You're taking your bike?"
"No, but I get anxiety if I leave my keys somewhere I'm not." I explained briefly, tucking them into my back pocket.
"I'm like that, but with my dope." He told me very casually, as if this topic was already so worn down and discussed that it wasn't even a big deal. I wasn't sure if it was. It felt like it was, yet it didn't.
"Really? Or are you trying to be funny?" I asked, stepping closer to him.
"No, I'm serious. I take needles and shit with me everywhere. You never know, man." He reached into one of his coat pockets, his large hand disappearing in the fabric. He extracted a dirty, brown leather pouch with a zipper on the side.
"For real?" I gaped as he began to unzip it. He peeked up at me, an innocent, slightly befuddled look on his face.
"Yeah?" He said it like it was the obvious thing to do. Maybe it was. I wouldn't know, I never carried my own needles, I was never that invested in heroin.
He opened it up, the inside was decked out with everything an addict needed. Well, except for the drugs. He had a needle tip strapped down beside the bottom half, which I assumed he would need to twist together in order to assemble the whole contraption. He had white fluffs of cotton in a small pocket, a lighter, and a small spoon. I figured it was an impressive set up, if I were someone who would be impressed by this.
"Wow," was all I responded.
"Yeah, and when I actually have the drugs I never let them leave my body. Ever." He explained as his fingertips gently traced over the needle, longingly.
"What if a cop stops you and searches you out of the blue?" I pressed and he shrugged his large shoulders.
"Then I go to jail and shoot heroin there." And I realized that he didn't really care where he was, as long as he had his drugs. I was scared for him.
———
It was chilly out, but not as harsh as it had been recently. I found myself missing the hot, burning sun dancing on my skin.
