I've grown older and nothing really gets to me but those sudden gunshots. The high lasts for a week until it wears off like a sugar rush, I'm a stray cat restlessly looking for something to put me off balance again. It takes more than it used to, the surest sign of a chronic addiction.
Henry is good to me but my abstinence
makes me want to go out alone and sleep with strangers. I still dream in
disjointed fragments, memories of nightmares linger in between the
stints but in the morning they're always gone.
It makes sense of
course, my father spent his entire life on the run. Mother stopped when
he died but I know she has it in her too. I miss her frostiness but if I
called her now she'd just go on about how much she hates Paris.