She left pissed off, and I locked the door. I was done letting crazy homeless chicks stay with me.
I had a decent string of days, then. That first day, Monday, I slept. It had been weeks since I had a good night's sleep. She's the one that smoked meth, but, I guess, swapping spit and other bodily fluids with a tweaker meant I got a bit of the drug too. And not having her twitching all around the apartment while I was sleeping probably helped too.
Glorious, dreamless, thoughtless sleep it was. When I woke up, in the late afternoon, my body felt like a million dollars. I lay there in the twisted and sleep-damp covers and just let the quiet of the empty space that was all my own sink into me. I don't really remember what I did with the rest of the afternoon and evening.
Or, wait, I do remember. I smoked the last half pack of cigarettes I had, sitting on the communal front porch in the sun, drinking coffee. Until she came back last month, waltzing into my apartment like she hadn't been gone for over a year, like she owned the place, I had been switching over to Zyn pouches. A lot cheaper and healthier to boot. But then with her always in my place, bouncing off the walls or talking her crazy, schizo stories, going out for a smoke had seemed like a great idea. I was back to nearly a full pack a day in no time.
So Tuesday I got off the cigarettes. That took some adjusting, willing myself not to smoke, to get the nicotine from a pouch instead of through my lungs, so I napped again all day. Then I went in to work. I had missed quite a few days over the month, so I had to suck up and sweet talk the foreman and smooth things over. Thankfully, there's plenty of guys who can cover my spot on the fish gut line, so they didn't really miss me. Not enough to get fired anyway.
By Friday I had worked nearly a full week. My hands were sore from pulling guts, but I had a sense of accomplishment. And I was really looking forward to the paycheck. The one I got on Friday was a whopping $113. Not nearly enough to live on. But early in the week I also got around and talked to my neighbor Justin, who owed some money he had borrowed for car parts, so I was able to pay the past due electric bill, which I hadn't even thought about for a month.
A week of work, a week of sleep and no cigarettes, a week with the apartment to myself and some chores taken care of: by Saturday I was flying high as far as my mood goes. I even took a nice walk out to the bay Saturday morning, even though we had one of our rare winter cold snaps.
That cold is the fate that screwed me. Saturday it dropped below freezing early in the evening, as soon as the sun had set. By 8:30, she was knocking on my door.
“Hey, hon, it's me,” she said, in that pipsqueak voice of hers.
I had made sure to lock the door; I'd been locking it all week to make sure she didn't just walk in again. I sat there for about two seconds, not making a sound, telling myself not to get up. But it was freezing, and I knew the shelter closed at 7. Was I gonna make her stay out in that weather? I had to at least talk to her, maybe get her a blanket. I walked to the door and opened it like an automaton.
“Hey,” she said. Just standing there, looking at me with her big blue eyes. Her face, her pert nose, the freckles splashed across her cheeks, all framed by a kinky bob of red blonde hair, actually made me ache.
But I didn't say anything. Then, she said, “You gonna let me in?” with a hint of a smile, just enough to start her dimple going.
What was I gonna do? It was freezing outside, and I knew she had nowhere else to go. I told myself I could let her crash on the floor overnight and then kick her out in the morning.
So that was Saturday. It's Monday night, past time to get ready for my shift, but I haven't slept, and the sex has me strung out. I think I'm gonna call off.
