It was the fourth or fifth time I’d spent the night at Aud’s place after a party, when she was flaked out half-n***d on the couch, that I saw the track marks on her arm – a bit of deep purplish-blue in a sea of beautiful dark brown. When I confronted her about it, she cursed at me, threw a lamp at my head and kicked me out of her apartment, only to dial me up the next day feeling hungover and apologetic. She said it wasn’t anything to be concerned about – a breath of fresh air, she called it. Just something she needed to make the days seem a little brighter. After that, whenever I tried to talk to her about her h****n use she quickly shut me down, told me she only shot up every once in a while, called it a chickenshit habit and said it was nothing to worry about. I did worry, though, too m
