When there痴 a junkie in your past, there are questions. Did you ever watch him shoot up? Did your fingertips trace his needle tracks as your hand caressed his arm? Were there were scabs and sores where the needle pierced his skin? Was he was cruel when he was high? Could he still get it up? How you could have ever put up with it? People tell you it was good that you left him, that you did the right thing. Staying would have supported his habit. Waiting up late while he ran drugs would have driven you insane. You could have gotten arrested. What about AIDS? What about Hepatitis?
The more I answer these questions, the more my memories change. I close my eyes and feel Ashley痴 lips on my neck, the chill and tingle down my throat, the cold spots where his tongue left saliva behind, and in that saliva, bacteria or viruses swimming as the spit evaporates, a little trace of illness mixed with desire.