the crime comes last of all

an exercise in blurring the truth.

Wednesday, June 02, 2004

three point one four one five nine two six five. . .

Her eyes are two dark smears against the ghastly white of her face. Rimmed with hot, smudgy, sweaty eyeliner and pupils dilated from the dark and the alcohol so that her irises are almost invisible, thin chocolate rings around gaping, glinting holes.

"If you would just," she starts, blinking and frowning while the joint slowly burns down between her index finger and thumb, "if you would just let me figure out how to articulate this before you start refuting me."

Even miles, miles from sober - chemically altered, she likes to call it while she's stumbling and giggling and hugging damn near everybody - she's still intelligent, still so scientific and clinging to her knowledge like a barnacle to a cruise ship.

She's sitting on the floor, Crime and Punishment in her lap, quietly sipping herbal tea that tastes like oranges. When she jerks her head up to see who's at the door, her head cracks against the stereo playing modest mouse behind her so hard that the disc skips.