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This appears in a pre-2010 issue
of Down in the Dirt magazine.
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Down in the Dirt v057

this writing is in the collection book
Decrepit Remains
(PDF file) download: only $9.95
(b&w pgs): paperback book $18.92
(b&w pgs):hardcover book $32.95
(color pgs): paperback book $75.45
(color pgs): hardcover book $88.45
Decrepit Remains, the 2008 Down in the Dirt collection book
Need

Laine Hissett-Bonard

        “Fuck the bitch, man! She knew fucking well what she was getting into when she married me. Fuck her and her high fucking horse and her fucking family, too.”
    You nod sympathetically, gently petting his back beneath the jacket he wears despite the warmth of the summer day. The air conditioning has run non-stop since you arrived on his doorstep not even twenty-four hours ago now; if you close your eyes, you might be able to trick yourself into believing you’re at home.
    “I ain’t going to fucking rehab, dude.”
    “I know.”
    “Rehab’s for fucking losers. Bitches.”
    “And quitters.”
    He glances sharply at you, then smirks a little when he realizes you’re teasing. He’s obviously been on the defensive for far too long. An uncharacteristic uncertainty appears on his face, clouding his clear blue eyes for a split second, and you know he’s going to ask you what you think as if you’re qualified to make that determination. You’re not an expert, a doctor, or even an addict, unless, of course, you count your daily two or three (or more) cocktails; you’re just his friend, and that’s all you intend to be, at least as far as this conversation is concerned.
    That doesn’t, of course, mean you’re any less concerned about him.
    Before he can pose the question, though, you reach over and brush a damp lock of hair off his forehead, smiling reassuringly into his eyes and wilting a little with relief when you see his uncertainty melting away as surely as a sliver of ice on a steaming hot sidewalk. You don’t want to have to say it, because you know he already knows you’re here for him now, you’ve always been, and you’ll always be, at least until your dying day and probably beyond. Many things change, but some never do.
    Before your hand can fall completely away, he places his own over it, pinning your palm – gently – against his cheek. There’s something else in his eyes now, something his greasy hair and three days’ stubble and slightly vacant expression can’t camouflage, because it’s something only you have been trained to find there. You’ve been looking for it – and at it – for a lot of years, after all. It’s something he has obviously tried to suppress ever since he got married – and, to a lesser degree, even since he got engaged – but that he’s never quite succeeded in putting away entirely. It’s that vulnerability he reserves only for you, allows only you to see.
    You don’t need to say anything, because anything you could possibly say now would sound too “after school special” to be appropriate anyway. He doesn’t need life lessons or lectures from your lips; what he needs from you is inaudible and intangible, except in the most literal sense.
    He needs you, and you both know it.
    There’s one other thing he needs first, however, and when you lean over to ghost your lips over the stubble on his throat, you take the opportunity to inform him of exactly what that is. “You need a shower,” you whisper, smiling against the warmth and inimitable scent of his skin.
    “No shit.” He’s quick with a reply, which is usually a good sign that he’s willing to comply with whatever request you’ve made.
    You pull him to his feet, and he reaches inside the pocket of his jacket, withdrawing a prescription bottle and preparing to thumb off the cap, but you shake your head minutely, taking the bottle from his surprisingly lax fingers and tossing it over your shoulder into the corner of the room.
    “I’ll give you something else to swallow,” you assure him, and you’re relieved to see a smile spreading across his face as you turn and lead him toward the bathroom. You always know just what he needs.



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