First love

2000.
I'd seen him around, the blond boy with creamy, glowing skin, Armani sunglasses to hide his eyes. He was beautiful, angel-like, in ripped jeans and long sleeved shirts. In an awkward set-up I was invited to his house for dinner by his roommates. I remember the smell of spicy soup, not enough places to sit in the livingroom. He was in and out. Couldn't sit still, couldn't look at me. I liked to play back then, with a constant string of boyfriends, one would replace another. It was pre-heroin addiction, I was twenty and powerful with beauty. After dinner he came out with us, to my friend's party. We walked side by side into town, the roommates looked back at us giggling. I dug around, trying to get to know him. He was sweet and cute, a contrast to his bad boy image. When I suggested e, his eyes lit up. We went to score, our fingertips brushing as we walked. Waiting on the bench, he took my hand. My heart leapt. Once the drugs were in us, the party seemed too rowdy to talk. Conveniently, I lived two streets back, with a stack of nitrus beside my bed. It didn't take us long before we were there, on my soft white duvet, lying side by side. In each other's eyes. Both tall and slim with blond hair, blue eyes and pale skin we were like brother and sister. Drowning in love we lay naked and smooth-skinned, gasping through each kiss, magic sparkled around us. When he confided in me that he was a heroin addict, I already knew. I didn't know what a big deal it was going to be, or that even after we would break up, years later, it would still affect me. I was innocent and in love.