Clinging to the end of the needle tucked so gently into the crook of her arm. Selfishly. It’s a selfish pursuit. In a room full of other people, but somehow she feels triumphant in her reckless pursuit of pleasure. That somehow she’s won, and when she walks out the door that drooping, dopey smile on her face. Leaving as soon as she think she can sidle out the door without anyone else noticing, back out into the bleating red sun. Hot like loud and sweat drip sun beams. Hiccuping slightly, because as she gingerly places one foot in front of the other, there’s something about the hiccups that makes her seem so vulnerable. Like a victim of time and space. It abets the helplessness that she is constantly surrendering to. On these dirty sidewalks, trying hard to look so pretty, and maybe if you were high, too, you might be convinced that there is something attractive in there somewhere. But at 2pm on a beautiful Tuesday, she’s just become something that is hard for everyone else to look at.