I woke up in a bag of cocaine.
Endless white dunes of addictive sand–coarse against my skin, but also soothing in the way that cocaine is. Like swimming in money–unpleasant, probably, but the idea feels good.
I propped myself up on my elbows. There was a woman sitting cross-legged at my feet, a woman whose blue eyes were bluer because we were imprisoned in white and whose body seemed to be an unsustainable fantasy masking a grotesque reality, I thought.
Where am I?
In a bag of cocaine.
I was worried, and she could tell–as though she had been my lover for many years and knew my expressions and silences and gestures from countless moments of trial and error. Her eyes were familiar, maybe.
Relax. Other than the occasional nosebleed, it’s not that bad here. Just don’t get the cocaine wet. You know what happens when cocaine gets wet, right? It gets angry, sticky, and inhospitable. It’s also really expensive.
The woman uncoiled her legs and climbed on top of me. Pressing her lips to my ear, she whispered something in a voice used to whispering enticing things to men.
I began to sweat, and the ground began to quake.
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