Under my dark sunglasses, my eyes glisten with tears. There has not yet been a single teardrop which has departed my eyes lashes. Although, when this inevitably occurs it will ruin my makeup. I depart the bus, and cross the street. Just five hundred metres from my flats front door. The strength is within me to hold it together for just two minutes longer. I pace quickly down my street, edging ever closer in the darkness. The only sound in the vicinity is from my own shoes, and my racing heartbeat.
The eyes in my refection are drawn wide. My pupil’s large, deluging my tempest green eyes from being properly admired. I almost gush at the way my soft skin shines under the fluorescent light. And, I contemplate returning to the cubicle, for an additional line.
Once back outside, I scour the bar for the right people to validate myself with. It only takes twenty minutes, or so, with each new individual to discover whether I am going to get my share of attention within the discussion. Should they fail to appease my narcissism, I encourage them to buy me a drink, before hastily evading them within the darkness of the bar.
I talk to a hipster guy with a beard, and an Italian queer with his septum pieced, and cannot figure out if they are together. Albeit, after only a short conversation with them, the mystery begins to bore me, and I move right along. Where I find myself entrapped in conversation with a girl with short hair, questioning if I were at Ibiza this year. I tell her that I was, before she realises I have begun drinking from her tabled drink. A ditzy display of naivety, and a quick dash to the back, to queue for the bathroom.
After seeing to the meticulous motions demanded to fuel my high behind the cubicle door. I will almost always thereafter find myself staring into my phones front camera, checking my makeup. Like some egotistical obsession to ensure that my presentation carries absolutely no flaws. It is not as if I am unaware of my compulsive actions, as I proceed to critique my eye liner application, yet again. I just simply do not care.
One of the pros to cocaine, is the fact that you almost never feel any shame, nor regret for your decisions, or actions. This makes your night of self-obsession far easier, as you pace around the room looking to suck admiration, and validation from your next victim.
This evening was much like any night out in London Town. A double vodka here, and there. An offer of two grams for a blowjob, from some beefed-up guy, with a bald head. An hour spent deciding what shoes to wear, and smoking splifs out of my bedroom window, while dancing my way through Lorde’s new record.
The only exception to this evening, is you. Not a moment has passed, when I haven’t thought of you. It didn’t matter how many drinks I had, or people I spoke to. Not even the copious volume of drugs in my system could shift my thoughts from you. I cannot help mulling over how one minute you were there, and the next you were gone. Vanished. A rush through nirvana before tumbling back down to reality. Everything in this life is a goddamn fucking illusion. One minute something can be real, and tangible. Before the next minute when it is lost, ostensibly for good.
I sit on the top level of the bus, shading my eyes from the bright fluorescent lights. Giving little care to the fact that I am now wearing sunglasses on a bus in the middle of the night. Legs crossed, and shivering. I try not to think of you.