It's as if the whole crowd is mocking you. A woman, a beautifully dressed woman on New Year's Eve pining at a reserved table alone, boredom circling with her finger the edges of a glass with the remnants of dry wine from 1960, which hugged the pink haze of the inland shores.

His right hand reached for his purse while the other brought the glass to his mouth, preening the burgundy poison as if he were a vulnerable lover. "where's that phone?" you hissed, rummaging through your purse: wallet, gum, tissues, a small forgotten bag of drug at the bottom, forcibly taken from Keegan. "Just try not to pick up".

Filled with indecision, you make about twenty phone calls and get no answer, stand up proudly, straighten your back with a nonchalant facade, toss a couple hundred dollars on the table for a bottle of wine, and walk away.

A man running past you caught your shoulder and a familiar scent enveloped the warmth of your stabbed naked heart. "Excuse me, I'm just in a hurry to meet someone," he said sternly, but no less awkwardly, as indicated by the lower-than-usual semitone, raising his eyes upward. Abnormally black pupils like expensive pearls glistening at the bottom of the ocean, a slight side-to-side stagger as he rubbed the balaclava on the back of his head in imitation of scratching his hair-all the things you'd been running away from with him for months. And here it was. - "I can explain. - he squinted his eyes at your shoulders, "Hear me out. It's not what you think." Your Rage-flamed cheeks moistened with cool tears framing an already broken grimace. Blinking tears in the dark of night, the last gleam of affection escorted him to retreat.

He chose drugs over a lifeline as a gift.