It was like a pink mist of happiness. And then a soft come-down to the smelly apartment, the unwashed dishes, the accumulation of pizza boxes. She was right next to him, coming down as well. Their eyes met.
He was slightly annoyed that it had to end. So was she. “Honey, can we do one more?”
“No,” he said without much confidence, “If we are to keep functioning, we need to know when to say stop. We need to sober up for work tomorrow morning.” He looked at the clock, work was four hours away, but he was already thinking about the evening afterwards. Waiting to do it again.
“One more hit is not going to hurt us,” she was saying, “I mean, I can be a little buzzed at work tomorrow. I don’t have anything hard to do. You know you want it.”
“Well, what if we get fired? I mean, people can tell. Frank can tell. He had to deal with junkies before.”
“So what, we can make money in other ways. I could have sex with guys. You know you’ve already been fantasizing about it. It turns you on to think there’s another dick in me, but it does not make me feel like you do. Besides, it can’t be that bad since millions of women do it.”
What was so good about nine to five anyway? He remembered the high, the strength it gave him. He was invincible, he could steal stuff, associate with criminals, start a gang. Then he would get high whenever he wanted.
“Yeah, what’s so good about nine to five anyway?” he said, and her look of anticipation turned into a smile. “What the hell, baby. Let’s do one more.”