IIII. ‘Marianne.’

IIII. ‘Marianne.’

We pause for a moment, trying to figure each other out. I, spending the moment unsure if this boy wants to throttle me, and he, most likely is trying to understand my strange disposition.

“Look, I just wasn’t aware it was happening today, I’m a student too.” I say, breaking the silence.

“Yeah, a Limey student, goddamn I fucking hate Limeys.” His rage begins to heighten; I can see his nostrils flaring, and the veins in his head are changing colour.

I push past him, only to be met by two young women- two young, ugly women, with black lipstick, I imagine they both have matching anarchy ‘A’ tattoos on their breasts or ankles. One after the other, bad teeth, bad breath, hiccupping through sentences. Junkie boy protests monkey welfare, gets high, trips, trips on his soles, ankles rub the sticky heels of his shoes. Fending for myself, I make my way to the metro, they’re everywhere, or I’m imagining them, any one of them could be an imposter. Rusty alley, shoot up, plump vein, pretend to be high, die, protest and do it again the next day. Its way of life refuses any ounce of dignity, embarrassment is unknown to a junkie, a junkie does what he does and denies himself humanity. It smells like sawdust and wet cement.

Paint white your arteries and paint your skin with it, they change colour, on the metro especially. I see the green ones flinch and cower into purple in the hot, sticky train cars. Afraid of shadows. Dead china dolls quake against the rails, endless peace, no judgement, no life. Go home, die some more, cum into an ashtray, spew your guts into the broken sink and sleep your greatest sleep, like you’ve never slept before. The weekend users (they usually have a yellowish hue), sleep all day on the weekends, shooting up, fucking prostitutes and chain-smoking until their lungs shake or give up. Then they go to work, dreaming of the weekend, of the cycle, prosperous, chaos, prosperous chaos.

Soon enough they will use every day. As for the real addicts (of the purple kind), their fate lies in the ground, between the needle and syringe, the next hit might be a ticket to Pere Lachaise, and that’s if you’re lucky, I heard they’ve started dumping coffins into the catacombs again. I don’t know if I believe it, though the rate on morgue space is getting pretty juicy. Junkie boy better off cremated.

Free air as I make my way up the steps of Montmartre, junkie never goes this high up, maybe the altitude doesn’t mix well with heroin. Not free of the pickpockets sadly. I’m looking for a spot to hang around at until I have to make my way to Gare du Nord, a slightly rundown café/restaurant catches my eye and I stumble across the road to it. I squeeze myself between a biker and a floozy,

“The cheapest white will do”, I say to the waitress.

“You got it, handsome”, she says.

I’m inclined to smile and flirt with her but in truth I’m not attracted to her. I’m starting a new regime of only hitting on women I’m attracted to, it’s better for the both of us, I’m not fooling them for affirmation no more, I swear. I’m avoiding eye contact to let her know of my new regime, I’m done being a whore, for now. Besides the poor girl doesn’t deserve to have her pussy licked by someone only half-enthused, it’s inhumane. I get on with my wine overhearing the conversation between the floozy and the biker, something about a hotel nearby I surmise. I wonder if Lilia is thinking about me. No, she’s probably hitting on some vendor to cut the price of some Mary-Jane’s or flats.

I don’t miss her, I’m just curious. Besides she gets fucked twice a day, not including me, I can tell by the stink of her stomach and the fact she has four towels on standby, who uses four towels? All of my pain when I think of the men, all those men, the girl will be fine without me. I only want to touch, it’s not my brain that is the problem, it’s the phantom feeling of how perfect I fit inside of her, or how she fits around me. I’ve already lost too much time thinking about it, I hop on the bus to Gare du Nord, eager to see Jean. He wrote to tell me about his place in Versailles once, a cramped apartment with just one bathroom, he says it adds character, and honestly, I believe him. He also says his friend Marianne is newly single. A point of interest. He wrote,

‘Oh Jim, we all can’t wait to have you here, especially Marianne. Oh, you’re gonna love Marianne Jim, she’s the best, your cock will be twitching.’

Jean doesn’t exaggerate, especially about women, he lowballs and I’m left to see angels, unable to speak. I intend to catch a few blinks on the train there, I can tell not much sleep will be had between the liquor, girls and bars. A new life in Versailles for a little while, I can hardly say I deserve it but my endless interactions with drifters and addicts makes me think otherwise.