addiction

A young woman walks down the street with a man about her age. He is talking animatedly, gesturing with his hands, and speaking quickly, his face broken into a grin, watching his friend react to his story. The woman is laughing loudly, her head thrown back, the sunlight playing across her features, creating unique shadows and contours on her face. They are not lovers, though they love. This day, they are friends, companions, pals. The pair turns off to the side and enters a building by its bright blue door. Looking through the window of the shop, an observer sees the woman sit down at a table dappled with sparkling sunlight, a smile still on her face, waiting while her companion orders coffee for the two of them. The young man steps up to the counter and places his order: “Two college coffees, for here, please!” The proprietor shyly points toward the table where the woman waits, and the young man looks at her, then back to the man, and nods. “$1.75, please” the shop owner says, as he clunks two big white mugs down on the counter. The woman never pays full price in his shop, she is too friendly, and has brought too much business to him. The young man turns, carefully balancing the two large mugs and his change. He sets one in front of the woman, and she smiles at him before taking a sip. He pulls out another chair, and sits opposite her at the table. They are quiet for a moment, taking in the afternoon, listening to the city move around them, slowing down their lives just for now, to enjoy each other, and what is left of the day. Their eyes meet across the table; he smiles and resumes his story.

Hours later, the couple swirls out of the shop into the falling evening. They are still laughing, and if they hadn’t been seen walking out of a coffee shop, one might believe their mirth to be manufactured by drink, not pure, unadulterated happiness. They walk a few blocks, and the man reaches into his pocket and pulls out car keys. He doesn’t belong to the city in the way that the woman does. He fits, but it is a nervous, forced kind of fit. The woman hugs him, and watches as he drives away, back to the north, back to the wide open spaces where he belongs. Watching the two red pinpoints disappear toward the interstate, the woman smiles to herself, and looks up into the quickly darkening sky. She is happy here, in a way that she never could have imagined. She turns and falls into the city’s beat as she walks purposefully back towards her apartment, back to the little part of the city that is only for her.

Struggling awake, the woman strains to remember what she had been dreaming of, what had made her so happy. At first, she’s not sure where she is, and, though it has been nearly a year, it is a familiar feeling. Touching the sheets around her, feeling for warmth, and finding none, she recognizes her bed. Looking above her, she sees curtains bordered by orange lights, and knows. Back to the dream. The images are so fuzzy, it’s difficult to remember. She climbs out of bed and pads to the bathroom in her bare feet, wracking her brain for just a glimpse of what had been so beautiful about her dream. As the pipes screech in protest of her demand for water, she remembers what she had been dreaming of: the city. She feels the familiar pang of sadness, as she looks around her suburban apartment, suddenly feeling a flash of hatred for it. It represents all of the compromises she has made, all of the choices that had to be made, though her heart yearned to go back to her city haven. She props herself against the sink, and reminds herself that it is not the apartment’s fault; she made the choices that put her here. She stares at her face in the mirror, lit only by the harsh mercury lights from the parking lot, and remembers the feeling of walking down the city streets, exploring, never taking the same route twice. Her soul screams at her, pleading with her to find that place again, to go back to the place that kept her sane. Sleep is far from her mind now; she knows she is awake for the day, even though it is only 4 in the morning. Stepping through the quiet apartment, she moves into the living room, and sits down in her grandmother’s chair: the best place she has ever found to just think.

She is jittery, sitting in this apartment, waiting for the light. Her eyes dart back and forth, from white wall to white wall, and down to the non-descript paper bag colored carpet. The anxiety rises in her chest, and she stands up, needing to be moving. Prowling through the interior of the place she calls her home, though it never really has been, she thinks about her life in the city, her homes there, the happiness she felt. Now she is reduced to grabbing as much of a high as she can get when she visits friends and travels, banking on these short-lived climaxes to sustain her in the long weeks between visits. She walks her one hallway faster and faster, spinning at the ends, only to take three strides and spin around again. On the fifth pass, she hears the dreaded sound of a cane knocking against the floor below her. Her night time wakefulness has rewarded her with just a little bit more anger and distaste from the crazy old bat downstairs. Rolling her eyes, she starts the process of getting ready, willing calm to come so that she can get through the hours before she leaves for her job, to a place where she is happy, even though it is “work”.