A whole box of pizza. Gods.
I reached her just as she finished, her body still heaving, not realizing that it was forcing up air. I knelt beside her, stroking her hair, her back, asking her if I could get her anything. She shook her head, her eyes still on the bowl. Slowly, I brought my hand to her chin, tilted it towards me, brought my lips to hers.
Her mouth was acrid, her tongue, bile-coated. There was vomit sourness laced with the aftertaste of pizza and a strong, overpowering vodka fire. I could taste her fear, her pain, taste the bitterness of her soul, and underneath all that, the honeyed-sweetness that I had gone without for so long; my elixir, my drug. Slowly, I felt her muscles relax, felt her sink into sleep, the weight of her falling on me, her mouth still clamped to mine. I
