No Tell Motel

Los Angeles at duskYour forehead feels cold against my thigh, clammy, unfamiliar. This motel in the desert with the neon star sign, my dress on the dirty carpet; I’m against the wall, trying to catch my breath again. I am trying to say good-bye.

Remember buying the connect for $200 and a couple of balloons?  We ate french bread and cheese on the floor of the apartment on Vine and took turns taking swigs from a plastic two liter bottle of flat coke. There was no furniture. We had to get high first or we couldn’t eat.

The sun was so low and heavy, the smog streaking pink across the horizon.  The air felt thick, like water. Your body wouldn’t let you move quickly. The light was purplish and hazy and you understood why they called it the golden hour. You only felt pain radiating through your bones, your fingers tight on the steering wheel, your other hand pressing down against your thigh to calm the ache. You are hyper-aware of the spoon in the glove compartment and you’re praying you can get over the hill before dark because you know he won’t meet you at night.

Against that wall you’re aware you’re substituting one fix for another, and you’re panting, craving, crashing, and all you can think about are those nights in the apartment on Vine, chain smoking, plotting, analyzing, comparing rehabs.  It’s almost like your veins remember.  It’s almost like your blood pulses harder on the inside of your elbow, stretching the skin, asking for it again.

The beat stays strong and irregular for a long time afterwards.  When you look at your arm you think you can see the vein pulsing, rhythmic, in 3/4 like a country song.

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One Comment Add yours

  1. datdank says:

    its hard to escape the life on Vine. I loved reading this. Thanks!

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