“Do you ever miss it?”
I tilted my head from side to side, cracking my neck, pouting my lips.
“You must think about it from time to time.”
“Do you miss those days?”
“I wouldn’t say I miss them; those days were a part of me, and sometimes, when I least expect it, I remember things, or dream about them.”
“You dream about drugs?”
“Sometimes,” I said, clearing my throat and leaning my head back, closing my eyes, while flash images of a few old friends scurried through my head.
“Do you ever dream about me?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do I mean? Am I ever in your dreams?”
“But we live together,” I muttered, shrugging my shoulders and smiling.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I see you every day,” I exclaimed, my voice inching upwards.
“Well, I guess, there’s just no room in my dreams for you.”
“You never dream about me?”
“I have,” I said, quickly adding, “I do. I dream about you. I just don’t remember them.”
“Oh, but the drugs are crystal clear, huh?”
“Those are more like nightmares. Everybody remembers their nightmares!”
“Seriously though,” I interrupted, squirming into an upright position while drowning in my sweat soaked palms, “I rarely ever remember my dreams.” I turned on the couch, casting my left leg over my right, facing her. She was fiddling with her phone, almost as if she was done with the conversation. I couldn’t tell, so I went on to ramble, to do what I do best. “The thing is, some drugs alter your brain chemistry, you know? Sometimes we’ll be watching a show or a movie, whatever, and some dude is doing drugs, popping pills or snorting lines, and for a moment or two I’ll feel the effects. A few years ago, when I stopped altogether, I would dream about drugs for months. I would snap out of sleep, sweat-soaked and cotton-mouthed, with the taste of some drug on my tongue. I mean, dreams can often be really vivid, but to taste something? It was quite the dilemma back then, as you can imagine; the last thing a recovering addict needs. Anyways, they alter your brain chemistry. They’ll always be there in your head.” I paused, perhaps waiting for her to say something, anything. She only nodded her head and pointed at the air with her lips, still fiddling with her phone. “Those days are behind me,” I continued, “Everything changed once I turned twenty five, as if the clocks sped up and my body came to a halt, you know? Hangovers are two day ordeals now.”
“If drugs change your brain chemistry, what does love do?”
I smiled, turning my head and looking out at our terrace and the snow flakes, like tiny Styrofoam pellets, slithering snakes in the wind… “Love made me a better person.”
“So fucking dream about love then!”