Jack exhaled and grabbed my arm, digging his fingers into my skin. “Can we not do this right now?”

“Fine.” I tossed my cigarette to the ground and pushed past him. I tried the front knob; it was unlocked in anticipation of our arrival.

We entered into a small porch with two doors: one to the left with the letter A, and another straight ahead labelled B.

Jack motioned to the second door. “It’s upstairs.”

As I opened it and ascended the staircase, the smell of dope hit me. The carpet lining the stairs had a pungent must, as though it hadn’t been replaced since the house was built, likely over a hundred years ago.

“Hello?” Jack called.

“Yo, in the living room.”

We reached the top of the stairs and followed the sound of the voice. Garbage bags were taped over the windows, and there was nothing hanging on the walls. The dealer sat on a ratty, ash-coloured futon. He had scraggly, greasy hair and was wearing a shirt full of burn holes. A cold sore on his bottom lip leaked clear fluid. The coffee table was lined with empty beer bottles. A box of baggies and scales sat in front of him. I felt I might catch a disease just being in the room.

“What can I do for you today?” he asked.

A cat sprang from the corner like a flying squirrel, caterwauling. I hopped out of its path. “Jesus Christ.”

The dealer didn’t acknowledge me or his cat. Dealers usually ignored me. I liked it that way. I wasn’t interested in interacting with them.

“We’re looking for some ecstasy,” Jack said.

“I’ve got some yellow guns,” he replied. “They’ll blow your head off.”

I wondered how many times he’d used that sales pitch.

“Take it easy, Señor Escobar,” I muttered under my breath. I wanted to tell him that in the grand scheme of things, he was so insubstantial it was almost heartbreaking. I wanted to yell that he didn’t fucking matter. Instead, I ignored his idiotic jokes as Jack unfurled some bills we’d rolled up to snort coke with the night before.

“Thanks, man,” Jack said as the dealer handed him a baggie.

“Anytime.”

I gave the room one final look before turning toward the hallway, sprinting down the staircase, and whipping open the front door. A sense of relief washed over me. It was humid and my clothes were starting to stick to my back. The evening breeze was refreshing.

“You’re a prick,” I said as Jack appeared.

“You’re fine.” He slapped my ass playfully. “Stop being so dramatic.”

“Fuck you, and fuck your half-baked Pablo.”

We walked quickly without speaking to one another. The less we spoke, the more we could focus on getting home, and the faster we got there, the quicker we could get high.

I unlocked the front door to my apartment. The walls were beige, the standard colour for most rental properties in the city. It was easy enough to paint over as people came and went without much notice.