He's the one with his hat over his face. Old. A bush of frizzy grey hair. Eyes milky, unfocused. Shaking his empty cup at passers by. He's my favourite dealer. He smells a bit, rants a lot. Looks poor, has rolls and rolls of twenties in his grubby pockets. Every time it's the same. "Brian?" "Tui... $70?" "Ahmm." "Gimme 5 minutes." He lumbers over to the Subway across the street, buys a bright orange pop in a Subway cup, uses their bathroom for eternity. Comes back lids even lower. Hugs me, tells me to be careful. Not to do too much. Some boys come up. He asks them for the money they owe him. He grumbles. I'm skidding on heels, across the tiled floor of the mall, to the bathroom at the end of the corridor. I cook it all, do it in one shot. Start thinking in riddles, ride my bike home, snuggle my cat. Feel like more.