❝maybe he's the blood and ink; the time you waste at the bathroom sink.❞

❘❘

I TASTE NOTHING BUT A HOT PROMISE on his lips, fighting off the icy edge that starts to inch through me. A layer of frost and a cool breeze barely conceal the lingering high.

"It's already winter, Neva," Julian breathes into the kiss.

Winter, winter, winter.

A violent gust of raw air bites into my cheeks; a blustering, beautiful snowstorm seizes me.

Foggy windows and heavy breathing chase away the chill lapping at my insides. My car feels sweltering hot in the late-August afternoon, a sticky sweet air clinging to my skin.

A war brews inside of me, a clash of feeling and numbness sweeping me from the shores of reality. I don't feel cold or hot; I only feel his fingers branding me, his lips claiming me, his soft promises tracing the edge of my heart.

"We stretch it well, and we can bail with nearly half a fucking mil, Neva."

Somewhere within me, I feel a sting—a warning.

It's all overpowered by the perilous strands of frosty air and tendrils of leftover smoke. "Yeah?" I ask, trying to catch my breath or my footing or my thoughts. "We'll make it snow in August. You and me."

The words don't make sense, and as I say them, sweat rolls down the back of my neck. In that inescapable temptation, lost in a tug of war between euphoria and misery, between high and low, between hot and cold, I'm unsure of where I really am. Is it August or December? Is it summer or winter? Are we surrendering to blizzards or heatwaves?

Desperate for clarity, I gasp below the surface of the fading high I've been nursing since we parked.

We parked. We're parked in front of our apartment building in Brooklyn, but somehow, we're moving at the speed of light; we're touching and tasting and snorting and kissing, and time stops existing, and only we do.

I can't think, I can't breathe, I can only be.

This is the infinity of it—the careless disassociated action of being. Just floating and fluttering, like ashes of a slow-burning fire.

Julian reels me over his lap effortlessly, and when our hips grind together, I moan. A shock, or a jolt, or a strike of lightning twists through me, blinding common sense as I lower myself onto him. Together, we're nothing; no thoughts, no regrets, no memories; only skin and sparks, the bare bones of a human existence.

I want that. I want nothing.

There's residue between us, there's cocaine on his lips, there's a dusting of snow blanketing every messy thrust that brings me to the edge of ecstasy.

And when the high starts to fracture like a sheet of thin ice, splintering and splicing beneath my feet to reveal the hot, summer pavement, I unravel, crash, and then fucking fall.

It doesn't hurt—not when I find myself in the hollows of an echoing avalanche. We pause; it pounds between my ears painfully, or it thunders, it rattles my bones and stings my lungs with dry, icy air.

The kind that makes you cough.

I sputter, stumble out of the car. Julian catches me, still buttoning his jeans as he guides us to the front door. My keys in hand, victory in his step, a shamelessly sated smile on his lips. "It doesn't last long."

Nothing comes to my lips as an answer. I can't find one because Julian is right. Nothing lasts forever.

All the bricks find a home in his apartment. With chattering teeth and ice in my veins, my gaze lingers on the duffel bag of snow he stashes in the back of his closet. I shiver, gnawing on my bottom lip nervously. "Oh, Neva," Julian coos and rubs his hands down my arms soothingly. His palms are rough and hot. "I thought you liked the cold."

Not this kind of cold. Like fingernails clawing through me, like suffocating strands lacing and tying around my veins to stifle the blood flow from my heart to my brain.

"I love the cold." Despite my words, I lean into his warm touch. In my palm, what's left of the 8 ball burns. "Why don't you...why don't you feel like this?"

Cold. Empty.

"Tolerance, mami," he lulls, gracing me with a sobering kiss. "A little bit like that is nothing to me."

Nothing.

Would I be like that too?

Snickering, Julian pulls away. "Be happy I was more aware than you, Neva. You nearly jumped me without a condom."

"I'm on the pill," I say numbly.

"Good to know." As he shuffles past me and through the doorway, I stay still, clutching the tiny, twisted bag of coke. "We should go out tonight. Check out a few clubs."

My curiosity gets the best of me. I follow him into the empty kitchen, where he pulls a small scale from the cabinet above the sink. "Clubs?"

"Can make a couple grand with coke on Friday night at a club, mami," he explains, never turning to face me. I scowl at his back. "Everybody is looking to party, sí?"

Julian isn't wrong.

There's an energy that doesn't seem to ever die in the city.

By the time we make it to the first club on 8th Ave, wandering through the stifling heat of another late night, I'm buzzing in anticipation. A nap and a shower washed away the hollow drowsiness of the afternoon high; every motion feels fresh and fierce as the inky sky follows us to the door.

Julian tucks me into his side, pats his jean jacket, and smiles down at me. "How you feelin'?"

My phone is off, the warm breeze on my bare legs makes me feel free, and the bag of coke is almost forgotten in my bra. I feel nothing. "Perfect," I breathe, a fire uncoiling in my chest. "I feel perfect."

"You look fucking beautiful," Julian rasps and reels me in for a sharp kiss. We waver on the sidewalk, meeting in some fucking messy collision of lips and hands. "Beautiful, Neva."

As he pulls away, I give him a dizzy grin. "Don't I always?"

"Sure," he chuckles. "Siempre."

I roll my eyes and shove him towards the door. When we enter the club, Julian is swift and fearless, weaving through the crowd with my hand in his, the first destination dimly lit and glittering with endless bottles of liquor.

Music tethers bodies to the dance floor, skates through my bloodstream, releases a new energy that dazes me. As we slow at the corner of the bar, Julian glances around warily. I watch his gaze stray over the crowd with caution before he signals for the bartender. Their exchange is quick between the bustling girls that rush forward, and as soon as he departs, Julian ducks down to my ear. "Listen, Neva, if you wanna take a hit, don't do it out here."

I wrap my arms around his neck as the bartender returns with two shots. "Bathroom, sí?"

"Always the best place."

That first shot sets the grinding motion of the night; maybe it was the only shot. I start to forget. Time bleeds together into sweat and music, jumbled with the restless energy still bubbling inside of me. I feel strangely alive, adrift along an ocean of people grinding and dancing and jumping.

Sometimes, I'm kissing Julian; sometimes, I'm kissing hot air.

Sometimes, Julian is beside me, on me, against me; sometimes, I'm with strangers. Sometimes, I'm alone.

In a bathroom.

The first bump doesn't have the same effect. It hits me, but the impact is like a vague throb in the pit of my heart. I blame it on the drunken drowsiness that comes with the club climate, a few forgotten shots and a loss of breath.

I do it again. In the bathroom, lit in a dim, flickering glow—my gaze wandering over the porcelain sink holding me upright, the scratched mirror in front of me, the person staring back at me—I take another hit.

The second attacks. I watch the woman in the mirror sniff, toss her hair back; I watch her twist a bag of coke closed and shove it into her bra for safekeeping. I watch her until I feel like I'm not her.

Until contact is distraction and distraction is disconnection.

With warm cheeks and a thrill in her step, she dresses up a dangerous smile for the entire world to see.

It doesn't last long. The crowd keeps screaming with laughter. Eventually, through the mirror of sweat, through the smoke of shadows, she dulls and dims, she fades into the conscious casualty of war I never want to be again.

Somewhere in the crash, Julian and I meet halfway in a frantic kiss. A reckless rhythm whisks us apart and brings us back together, like two instruments tuned to the same key of self-destruction. I can't tell if he's high in the fleeting glimpses or touches, I can't even tell if I'm still high.

That icy edge comes crawling back, biting and nipping at the fringes of skin until goosebumps start to raise. Two hands slide down my hips, toying with the hem of my dress.

"Jules!"

A mild frostbite sits in my fingertips as I turn with Julian. "¿Qué es la qué?"

My breath hitches at the sight of him, dressed in a white shirt and dark jeans, a backward baseball cap tempting me to yank it off. Under the flickering club lights, though his expression is tight, it skews with the excitement I feel lurking beneath my skin. He barely nods at me, but I feel heat emanate from the single gesture. "Neva."

"Rio," I say, my voice catching under the layer of music.

I can still remember fragments of that messy night, high as I was. From the Uber to my apartment, past Rachel's scathing looks, and into my bedroom, the hazy blur makes me bite my lip. His hands in my hair, his lips, and his...

His gaze swings to Julian, severing the connection. Feverishly, I fight the fog on my brain and try to focus on the sudden slang of Spanish beneath the music.

"..Dan me llamó..."

"...dijo que le habías robado..."

"...mira, no me robé nada...mas chavos..."

"...esto es arroz con culo..."

Julian steps in front of me with a hushed demand. "Dame un break, man. No te vayas de chota. We have una gata to help us run some of it."

Over his shoulder, Rio's gaze finds mine. They're talking about me.

Another sting erupts in my chest; it's a pinprick of icicles, a weak warning of deception or danger or destruction, but I just can't find anything else inside of me to care.

I slip away from them soundlessly, melting into the background of twisting bodies and bloody music. The floor tilts, the lights crush me, and I find myself in the dirty bathroom again. My fingers skim the sink, brush over the faucet, graze the mirror that holds me hostage.

Long, tangled hair cascades down shoulders to hide bare skin. Long lashes frame wet eyes, fluttering until everything starts to crumble. Dark and deep, she used to say, just like your papá.

I close them, the painful ache in my chest shredding me to pieces.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

When I finally find the will to open them, I'm fingering the bag of coke gently. I blink and blink, shaky fingers catching my key to take another bump. Those hollow eyes find me.

I close them again, chasing the high from the first time—that invincibility.

Nothing could compare to it, and I know it. Sometimes, I feel disconnected, drifting away from the world; other times, I feel like I'm swimming through the veins of everyone I've never met.

I feel infinitely bulletproof.

The world still whirls beneath my eyelids. I can hear the pulsating electricity beyond the bathroom, the pounding bass beneath my feet, the trembling walls fortifying and sealing me into myself.

Nothing can hurt you if you're numb. Nothing matters if you just don't care.

A gasp escapes, a breathless sound fluttering from my heart to my lips with desperation. The last minutes are cold, and when the feeling numbs my fingertips, and I can't find the searing, summer heat of August, I open my eyes again.

A drop of blood dribbles from my nose.

"We call it snow, Neva."

Mindlessly, I reach for a paper towel to swipe at the blood. I feel no pain; I feel nothing. I want to keep feeling nothing. As long as it's always winter.

A contradictory collision of ice and fire. I want the symphony of flames that scratch through my veins and spill from my lips in the form of cold, cold, cold snow.

So when the bleeding stops, I take another bump. But I don't feel nothing. I feel everything.

It hits me like a broken blizzard of fucking feelings.

Tangled together into the motions that lead me to the dance floor, bumping into bodies and railing into a crowd, giggling and dancing, grinding and fisting hair, kissing, living, breathing.

I feel weak—one gentle blow away from collapsing in on myself.

My throat tightens; I know I've been screaming from the crowd, screaming and screaming so everyone in New York City can hear me.

I feel strong—on top of the entire world and ready to destroy anything in my way.

There are stumbling moments, fumbling moments, jumbling moments. When things don't make sense, when my feet don't connect with the floor, when my hands don't find fabric or skin, when my heart isn't with me.

I feel fake—a million memories ensnared into lies and fantasies I've stirred up with a flurry of snow: hot mornings and cold nights, black tar and black ice.

It leads me into the night without a single worry, a single inkling of pain or regret.

I feel real—finally stripped into that vulnerable nothingness that can make everything fade away, desperate for more and more and more.

Anything to feel this way. Anything to feel like this forever.

I take another hit.

❘❘

**Snorting cocaine gives a longer high than smoking or injecting it, but when it's snorted, cocaine is absorbed through the mucous membranes in the nose. It can seriously damage the nasal cavity, nasal tissues, and the throat. Long-term cocaine use can also fuck with your sense of smell and collapse your septum.

Nosebleeds are common in cocaine users. BUT. YOU SHOULD NEVER take another bump or do a line immediately after getting a nosebleed.

Neva is on a cocaine binge, so she's not thinking clearly anyways. 🤷🏽‍♀️🤷🏽‍♀️