Weightless

Sun on my back. I'm okay kiddies.
10 days to home. And the methadone detox. Swimming with the dolphins, lounging in the shady, fern filled courtyard, the smell of flowers and sea in my nose. I have these big aviator sunglasses. They look normal from the outside. But through them, the world looks sunny. Happy. I call them my therapy glasses. They take the edge of the icy blue sky here, razoring my nerves away. Anxious mornings. Don't like waking up. Unemployed on methadone, I could sleep to four pm and go to bed again at ten. I want to. I wish. The nightmares have gone. Drugs too. Heroin once, my first day back. Two fucked up attempts at coke, fumbling through the scar tissue, blood splattered floor, heart in my throat. It makes me want to vomit. Last time I called him, the mafia-oso dealer, pseudo hot, lanky, young, increasingly flirtatious, cloying, I waited ten minutes. There, on the street corner. Shivering. Nauseous with anticipation. Hopping one foot to another. Men driving slowly, the way they always do, thinking I'm a hooker. I just try not to look at them. He was a minute late. The nausea deepened. The hate thickened, like something big and heavy deep in my stomach. A taxi had stopped at the lights. So I just ran to it. Shaking still, jumped in. Went to the pharmacy. Handed over my dollar, gulped down my small bottle of methadone and tang.
Trying not to think of him waiting there, at the corner. In his big expensive car. Beating the steering wheel with his fist. Swearing at me in Italian. I don't know why, or how, I left like that. I'd always wanted to, in the past, waiting for dealers. Never had the guts. I know how angry they get. I know he'll hang up on me, if I was cheeky enough to try and call him again. But just maybe, I don't care.