She stares blank over that last cup of coffee. 'It's coming', she says. She doesn't have to tell me that she doesn't know when.
Her change clinks onto the table top, she breathes out and gets up. She's gone for good, and I know this, as she picks her bag up off the floor and head out, I know this. All of the sick, sad things she's done thus far and she's gone. Easy as pie.
I push my hands into each other and my knuckles pop one by one.
It's good but not good enough.

At home I pull open the top drawer of my dresser and pull out all the things I drew for her. All the words I wrote to her. There's six pages in all, none of them stupid enough to throw out, and none of them succinct enough to keep. I thought I could write it perfect, or draw it right, but I never could.

I make a pot of cofee, crush up six adderalls and line them up neat. I sit staring. Milligram by milligram the pseudo-speed goes into my nose. Pen moves adjacent to paper, and this is the closest I've ever come to ritual.

And the weight of it!

I'm bored after a while, my head voice makes me sick.

I lie on my back on the floor, looking at the ceiling. I count. I make it to 3,789. I started over twice, both times around 400. Couldn't get that face she makes out from under my eyelids. The one that says, Please.

So I call her, because this is like quitting smoking, or having smoking quit you. You think, after this one last pack. You think, this time I can change. I leave a voice mail that says, Baby.