Whenever we call the dealer my boyfriend starts to vomit. Wrapped around the toilet bowl he passes the phone to me. I put in our order. Sometimes he can revive enough to meet the dealer, but often it's me who runs to the corner, doing up my jacket zipper as I go. Then I have to cook it. He tries to but he just keeps retching, big violent full body shakes. I move swiftly. This is the ritual, the process I love. I run to him, fit in my mouth, I can feel the warmth of the liquid through the plastic syringe. Like a relay I pass his to him in the bathroom and run back to the bed. Every particle of me wants what's in my hand more than anything. The ultimate decadence is to have a big shot and then a bowl of ice cream, sweet and melty, with chocolate chips. It's already prepared, waiting for me beside the bed. My vein is delicate and hard to find. At last it's done. A burst of itchyness attacks me. The itchier the better, it means the shot is strong. I disconnect. And I'm floating and blood-smeared with creamy sweetness on a spoon. My boyfriend vomits one last time after his shot. Now it's with relief. He joins me on the bed, I offer him my sticky bowl of ice cream. These are the moments that are worth everything.