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long waves of swallowed.
In Berlin I passed a boy at a trestle table outside a crappy kebab house, sitting opposite a young woman who was ravishingly beautiful even from behind. She had long black waves of shining hair and these long lips, these eyes, you know how girls do. “You mean, like, mescaline?” he prompted, leaning in with squalid eagerness as I passed. “I dunno what it was,” she said, waving her hands like birds in the air. “But it was blue and I ended up taking the whole thing.” Her voice was American, her clothes were good. As I came home I was thinking how lucky I am to have survived my 20s. I thought it was normal to get drunk before you went out at night, because cheaper. My friends and I made calculations in the bottle shop based on alcohol percentage per volume per price. The head waiter came into the restaurant where I worked and said, Here, swallow this! tossing me a stock cube. I swallowed it. The rest of the night was a long swim through dense warm water uphill to wait tables, my first experience of hash. In a crowded club where I was very often dancing a guy came up to me and said, You wanna buy some acid? Sure! I said, and followed him down an alleyway. He sold me two tabs of paper and I jumped in my mother’s old car and set off down the highway, putting one on my tongue straightaway. It dissolved and I didn’t feel anything. Should I take both? These decisions always seemed to me entirely reasonable. The car sat still as the road was whipping by me underneath. By the time I reached my destination the steering wheel was buckling under my hands. “Like a snake!” I explained to the man I had met twice before and decided to drop in on unannounced. “Are you tripping?” he said, and I asked, “How can you tell?” He set me up on the couch with a lamp draped in the most beautiful paisley scarf in this universe, and went back to his bed on the floor. He was reading Women in Love. I was going to bring you one, I apologised, but I decided to eat them both.
