Suzi M.

Smiling Goth Productions








Suzi M.



He had brought the alcohol into the relationship, but she had brought the pills. She had an assorted rainbow in the bathroom medicine cabinet: Celexa-white, Zoloft-blue, Palest-Prozac, Lithium, and of course no rainbow complete without the primary colors, Xanax and Valium.

While she was busy swallowing colors, he was busy with the classics lining his bookshelves. Jack Daniels, Jim Beam, Johnny Walker, Sambuka, and no collection complete without the greatest of Latin lovers: Jose Cuervo. There were of course the lesser-known artists, some far more expensive, like Godiva (if you liked chocolate-flavored erotica), After Shock ( cinnamon pornography), and Dr. Maguillicutty (if you were into self-help and psychoanalysis). Countless others lined the shelves, these were backups, in case he ran out of the greats.

He was just starting into some of Johnny Walker’s wisdom when he looked up and saw her. She stood in the doorway, hands shaking, jaw clenching. He hadn’t noticed how thin she had been getting, and her nose looked like the salted rim of a margarita glass. When had she started collecting powders??

"Honey? What’s wrong?"

"Nothing," she told him. Absently she wiped at her nose, then looked in milky surprise at the blood on her fingers. "Shit. THAT can’t be good."

Given the timing, the circumstances, and the delivery, they both glanced at each other and started laughing. Completely inappropriate, but it was so damned funny. Just as quickly they stopped laughing.

The blood dripped off her upper lip now and onto the dirty-white liquor-stained carpet. She wiped at it, smearing it across her mouth like lipstick. "I think I have a problem," she whispered, and he felt his heart break with her voice.

"Oh, God… baby, I’m so sorry."

He took her in his arms and kissed away the blood and tears. He remembered the way he used to live for the nights, when they would be a tangle of sweat and sex, and the way her eyes looked the next morning, sleepy and content. He held her tighter, and they danced to music he hadn’t even written yet. In their state, her buzzing on what he could only assume was either cocaine or heroin, and him filled with all the late-night wisdom of Johnny Walker, they knocked all the prior greats from the shelves. Johnny shattered into Jack and Jose, a bar brawl of broken glass and liquored flooring.

They crashed into the bathroom, spilling bottles, pills, and little glass vials into the sink, bathtub, and onto the floor. They danced over the broken present-past, crushing pills and plastic to powder, breaking open the vials of off-white powder on the hospital-white tiles of the bathroom floor.

They danced until they became one body, moving like water over the hardwood floors. The nicotine-white walls bleached to their former purity in the morning sun. They tumbled into the cold bed they hadn’t shared in many months. They held each other in arms warmed by sunlight and the potential for a new start.

They stayed like that for a long time, relearning each other, reliving their past together, reviving the addiction they once had for one another.