This is fiction. Mostly.
Five chalky white circles. Down the hatch. Her face grimaced at the bitter opiate taste, her eyes closed tightly, the top of her nose crinkled. She sipped from her glass of ice water and smiled to herself.
Who needs a trip sitter for a depressant?
No sense in complaining, I guess. There wasn't anywhere else I'd rather be. It was one of those half-formed Sundays that makes you wonder where the weekend went, and why you're drifting through the day half-asleep after finally getting a decent amount of sleep. The only successful way to spend the day would be to drift through one of these Sundays with a joint and a lawn chair; trying to accomplish anything would be playing against the overwhelming mood of sleepiness and half-realized despair that these overcast Sundays were desperate to impose on you. I'm tired of having the weekend, holiest of holy concepts during the week, let me down.
Besides, her needless worrying was adorable.
She was already lying down, wrapped up in the cotton bedsheets and her grey zip hoodie. There was no way the oxy had kicked in yet, but she played her role anyway, curling out among the disrupted bedsheets. Her eyes were wide open, but you could tell that she had already resigned herself to what was coming.
“I'm glad you're here.”
“In case you fall asleep and waste your money?”
“Right.”
“I'm guessing it hasn't kicked in yet?”
“Not for another 20 minutes.”
We waited in quiet reverie, looking forward to more of the same. I just wanted to see the sleepy, contented look on her face and give her the relaxation that she needed. I just wanted to be part of the warm, tired celebration in her head, a candlelit god of comfort.
I wanted to be needed. She needed me.