nothing nothing

I bought the cat a leash. We go out walking. But usually he ends up in my purse, head bobbing. Safe and secure in case of trucks- his big fear. I took him with me this morning, feeling like a crazy cat lady, avoiding people's eyes. It was 6.30am, I had cash to get out, my dealer was on his way. The routine dulls me. We took back alleys to get home, damp and raw with the smell of open trash. The cat was quiet, eyes big and wide. I creaked open the front door and took off the purse with him in it. He stayed there for a few minutes, as if hoping we'd go back out again, until I opened the newspaper. Every morning I have my shot of heroin and do the crossword. He watches me do my heroin, trying to knock it over, bite the syringe, attack it. But once my attention is on the paper so is his. He takes running leaps, building up speed by starting at the far end of the house and sliding, claws ripping, teeth biting, through the arts section, the business section, the sports. The expression on his face manic, psychotic. My little baby.

It's time again. I need to go to the bathroom, my legs are sore, my heart is beating quicker. I'll call the man with the bandanna. Give him my 60 bucks and turn it into half a teaspoon of liquid. A moment of softness and safety. The warm, tight hug of heroin.