Just two young white girls in a near-empty Greyhound bus station on a Wednesday morning who need each other to watch our respective stuff while we go to the bathroom or the vending machine.
“This girl I’d never met said that any woman who had sex with more than three partners before marriage is a whore. I reached out my hand and said, ‘Hi—I’m a raging whore.'”
The first time I met Heroin, she was smeared with static, spiraling down the coast in electrical signals, crowding my ear with a dull silence that I struggled to fill.
He is the first person I’ve met who could, without affecting any sort of pose, be a character from a book about historic America. I don’t remember his name, but I remember feeling a sort of dull surprise that it was not Abe.