Christa pitched sticks and screws at my window until I buzzed her. She came equipped with a Ziploc filled with every prescription drug ever advertised.
“I want to have a lost weekend,” she said, unbuttoning her uniform.
We ate ten pills each before we got serious. I accidentally downed the one for restless leg syndrome. When I came I couldn’t curl my toes.
She laid in the nook in my armpit, a position women pick to cut off the circulation to the fist. I could tell she had something to say, and she’d taken those drugs so she wouldn’t say it.
When we licked off the crumbs of the Ziploc she made me prairie oysters and rice. The rice looked like it belonged in a refugee camp. So did her shoes. Halfway back from Associated, the sole detached, and she walked the rest of the way in one sock. She doted over my collection of corduroy jackets until four in the afternoon.
“I’m not attracted to people,” she said. “I’m attracted to clothes.”