Hmm.
I wonder if criminal charges are an option, too?
But then I’d have to appear in court, and the thought alone is enough to dissuade me.
She’ll get away with it, like she has been for decades.
I park down the road from The Hollow Point. It’s a short walk and an even shorter drive from campus, and I’ve heard they’re pretty lax about carding inside. But I’m not here for the intoxicated underage students.
Not tonight, anyway.
A young man emerges from the alleyway beside the bar, hoodie up to ward off the rain as he scurries over to my car.
“What’s up, Professor?” Corbin drawls, his fingers sliding through the gap as soon as I wind my window down far enough.
I swap out my bills for the baggie between his fingers. “All good. You heard from your dad yet?”
“Yeah,” Corbin whines. “I told him what you said, but he’s still giving me shit about dropping out.”
“Fuck him. Not everyone’s built for college. You save up enough to get your crypto business off the ground, and he’ll be the one apologizing to you.”
“After I pay back my student loans,” Corbin mutters, then hikes a thumb over his shoulder. “It’s pissing down. I’m gonna take off.”
“You got an eighth on you?”
“Yo, weed?” Corbin laughs, giving my window a little thump with his fist that makes my jaw clench. “Since when, Professor?”
“It’s for a friend.”
“Most def-i-nitely.” He digs around in his pockets and shoves the bag through the gap in my window but flicks his hand when I try to hand him another stack of rolled-up bills. “Nah, first one’s free. This shit’s epic. You—“ he clears his throat dramatically “—yourfriendwill def be back for more.”
He falls back, gives me an awkward half-wave that looks more like a lowkey Nazi salute, and disappears into the rain.
I peel open the bag and sniff the contents, then seal it up again and toss it into my glove compartment.
Sliding my phone off the wireless charging bay in the Tesla’s console, I tap a small heap of coke onto the screen and cut myself two precise lines with my black Amex.
I make sure no intoxicated young things are around, and duck to snort up the line with a rolled-up bill. I lick my fingerand drag it over the ghostly smudges left on my phone screen, rubbing the residue over my gums.
The coke hits like a most-welcome nuclear strike.
The initial whiteout devastates everything in its radius, followed by a slow bloom, like a radioactive cloud. My ears ring as warmth and light and bliss sear through every neuron in my brain.
It’s almost good enough to eradicate the bitter tang of chemicals coating the back of my throat, or the suddenly urgent pitter-patter of my heart.
I crank up Chopin’s C-sharp minor as I wait for the rain to ease. Draping my wrist over the Tesla’s steering wheel, I mimic the pianist’s fingertips as I imagine them dancing over smooth ivory.
Chopin wrote it as if he were already mourning his own death, every note a poor decision, or destroyed hope. Pained and tortured.
How fitting.
I’m practically invisible out here in the dark with the Tesla’s matte black wrap, and I savor my intentional isolation as much as the numbness spreading in my gums, contrasting so deliciously with the heightened awareness of every other sense and thought.
Evelyn insisted her children played at least one musical instrument. I gravitated toward the piano, because that was something she couldn’t play herself, so she fucked off and left me alone when I was practicing.
My sister, Sybil, made the mistake of picking up the violin. Probably had romantic notions about it. Evelyn excelled at many things, but teaching her daughter to play the violin wasn’t one of them. It’s not that Sybil wasn’t smart enough to learn. Evelyn just didn’t have the patience to teach her.
Pain stings through my finger where I’d been biting the knuckle. I rip my fist away from my mouth, pressing it against my thigh.
