The Wacky We
“Question,” I said, “Do you think you have a drug problem?”
Marcus looked up at me from steel toilet roll holder, some cocaine from the line he had just done sitting like snow on the roof of his moustache, just beneath his right nostril. The music from the club throbbed through the walls of the bathroom, as yet another sonic mountain was climbed just to be dropped again on an array of fucked-up weekend revellers.
Marcus sniffed to capture the last little spores of the coke in his moustache, and said, “Me?”
I cocked my head and said, “You.”
“Nah,” he said. He offered me the fifty-dollar bill and gestured at the rack behind him. “Your turn.”
The alcohol was already sending me waves of numb pleasure through my body, but the fat line of gear that sat on the toilet-roll holder was familiarly enticing. My mind slipped from the topic at hand as my nostril found the note, which found the gear, and I hoovered it up without a second thought.
And just before my heart started to bounce wildly within my chest — before I was catapulted into orbit —I looked at Marcus, who was grinning wildly.
“We do,” he said.