“Two hours—I’m leaving in one. Let’s not make a big deal about leaving this time. You always make it so hard,” Morena now moves her charring lips near my earlobe.

“Okay,” I close my eyes, scratch my nose, and let out a tranquil sigh.

I timed it perfectly on this occasion—the drug’s potency will peak just as Morena leaves.  I curl up in her armpit like a little child, and try to comprehend her smell. This smell—a clean smell of marigold and thyme combined with her crisp, sweet perfume—will haunt me for the next 12 months. I breathe in through my nose deeply, slowly.

A drip in my nasal cavity releases some opiate relief and a bitter after taste follows. The bitterness does little to overpower her smell. Only that bullet rattling in my skull like the pills in her bottle would allow me to forget that smell.

I float up into a blue powdery cloud. I begin to fall in and out of consciousness. The world begins to come in flashes:

FLASH: I feel her loosen my grip and stand up off the bed.

FLASH:  I watch her come out of the washroom and put on her weightless white dress.

FLASH: I feel her hand moving over my body, then placing the blanket over my chest.

FLASH: I smell her.

FLASH: I watch the door close.

I managed to give her that painless parting she hoped for.

FLASH: I snap out bed, stagger into some pants, and grab a shirt which I manage to throw over my shoulders as I bolt for the door, for the hallway, for the stairway. I run down the first 3 stairs and jump the remaining flight: stair, stair, stair, jump; stair, stair, stair, jump; stair, stair, jump; stair, stair, jump—9 stories, 18 flights.

A burst of light floods my dilated pupils when I slam the door open. Where is she? How long has it been? Is that her taxi? I need to see her again, to smell her again, to feel her lips on mine—just one last time before next year. Just for the taste. I scratch my head; open my eyes. Everything lies beneath a layer of frosted glass that paints a glossy, glowing world. I squint. I concentrate.

I manage to spot those shimmering eyes twinkling full of tears. She’s the saddest woman to ever lug a suitcase. I breathe a sigh of relief partly because I found her, but partly because I found her miserable. She hides it so well that sometimes I forget.

Does she ever think about rocking off a chair? Or piercing her skin to see blue blood rush like Sicilian fountains? Or, maybe, shooting those pills till breathing slows, crawls, ceases?—No. She’s stronger, she must be.

But what if parting anguishes her as much as it does me? Like a mouse, I retreat into a dark corner.  I already made this hard enough.