Eyes Bright, Uptight {EDITING}

//his hair, his smoke, his dreams//

Claire would never forgive me. I hadn't spoken to her since that awful, awful morning. I had seen her in person only once, at a coffee shop randomly. It was near Christmas, and she was settled comfortably on a couch, no makeup on, losing herself in a Virginia Woolf novel. I dind't date try to speak with her, though. I just watched her for a bit, then made my way out without ordering anything.

I had tried my best to forget her, but nothing ever worked. The drugs were a poor substitute, but I did them anyways.

Ironically, for as much of a pervy little shit he had been, George had saved me from myself on Valentine's Day this year. It was the morning after a show in Paris, and I was in the hotel bathroom, my pupils dilated as I gazed at the reflection I loathed in the mirror. I was tapping the razorblade against the marble of the counter, thinking about what I had planned for this day. The antique Tiffany's ring was still in the top dresser of my apartment back home.

I'm not sure if I actually wanted to slice my veins open. Perhaps I just wanted to see if I would still bleed.

George had taken it from me, and just said "No, mate."

He didn't really leave me by myself much anymore.

"Fuck," I mumbled to myself, the little walk down memory lane reminding me that I needed to take my anti-depressants.

I rummaged through the small bag at the foot of my bunk. It contained precious things: my phone charger, my wallet, passport, anti-depressants, my one-hitter, Rizla, weed, and about six grams of cocaine.

The little pill went down my mouth in a wave of wine.

"Chocolate digestives," George said, his long legs sprawled out over Adam on the couch.

Adam's eyes perked up from the iPad. "Hmm, peanut butter."

"Grapes," I added, draping my arms over George's legs.

Ross shook his head, indicating he didn't want to play Bird's Eye Potato Waffles.

George's phone dinged and he looked at it. "Scotch eggs."

"Yorkshire pudding," Adam yawned.

I tied my hair into a bun. "Dates."

George followed Adam's yawn. "Fuckin' french toast."

Adam groaned. "Ugh. Now I'm just hungry. Erm, curry."

I laid my head on the back of the couch and gazed at the ceiling, thinking of how many pills I should take to come down from the high of the cocaine.

"Marmalade," I followed.

"Smoothie," George said as he perfected a blunt on the back of a Bowie record.

"You're out, mate," I said.

George eyed me. "What the fuck do you mean I'm out?"

I rolled my eyes, swatting at his knee cap.

"A smoothie is a drink, mate," I explained.

George moved his head around, mocking me.

"Twat," he said.

Adam shrugged in agreeance with me, and went into the mini-kitchen to grab a bag of crisps. Ross had wrapped up his call with Tinsley, and flopped down next to me, showing me ultrasound photos of he and Tinsley's babies. They were cute little blobs.

George exhaled the smoke and passed it to me.

Perhaps if I smoked enough I'd be able to sleep tonight.