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I forgot about Eva! I think I blocked her out. I think she scared me that much. I just took my afternoon dose of my medical marijuana, and there was Eva. The memory just hit me. Eva. I whispered it out loud. Eva, the ex-junkie that I met at—where the fuck did I meet her? I think it was a poetry class.

Yes! She asked me to smell her hair. Could I tell she hadn’t washed it in days? I couldn’t. Her hair smelled like purple. There is no other way to describe it. It was just Eva’s scent.

She leaned back in her chair and whispered in my ear.

I hear this professor is a cunty woman, but a real great poet. She winked and smiled. We should steal all her shit and kill her.

And we were friends. She was tragically gorgeous. She’d been almost dead for years when she finally kicked. She went to a meeting three times a day. She was studying to be a counselor. She was an amazing poet. She was so broken. She knew she could never be fixed. She would have to make it as a mess. She worked very hard. She was determined. She was only twenty years old.

For some reason, she adored me. So, of course, I fell in love. I kept trying to fuck her. It amused her. Silly Tommy, Eva didn’t “bang” men she loved. Horniness was an itch to her at this point. She didn’t want her affections getting cheapened by sex.

I argued for it. Our passion could heal her. It would be good for our spirits. It would be food for our poetic souls.

For fuck’s sake, Eva, we’re both wounded poets! How can we not be lovers?!

I sounded like Lord fucking Byron, but I meant it. I felt for Eva in my toes.

And let’s be clear on this one point: Eva was fucking gorgeous. Her body was firm. Her face was angelic. She had a voice like a violin playing. I loved to listen to her talking. We talked on the phone for hours. We talked all night. She didn’t sleep well.

Eva was very unhealthy. Heroin had taken a toll. Her insides were torn to pieces.  Her bowels didn’t work well. Her intestines were irritable and sensitive. Her muscles were always sore. Her heart was enlarged. her lungs were damaged. Her liver was swollen. Eva was invisibly dying and she always looked awesome.

Numerous doctors had warned her — a few screamed at her in their offices — one more heroin injection and she was a corpse. Her heart would fail. Her brain would seizure. No more living. No more Eva. She could kill herself with an Opium high. It was guaranteed. I was jealous. I admit it.

But the existence of this orgasmic exit door — that’s what she called it — gave Eva unstoppable courage. She was going to be an artist. She was going to be a poet. She was going to write about her suffering. She was going to tell the world how soiled life could be. She was going to force us to see what the world does to her people: the addicted.

And Eva did it. I watched her do it. I took her to an open poetry reading. I wanted her to read a poem. I wanted to help her believe in her work. She said she would read a new one — a poem I had never heard before. I was excited.

She dressed with a flair for the occasion. Her clothes were bohemian yet exotic. She a frilly scarf. She wore a thrift store hat. She had her nails done and did her make-up. She looked gorgeous.

The old ladies at the reading were beaming. They had known me for awhile, and I was always alone. And what a charming young lady Eva is. She’s smart and funny and witty. A spit-fire, the old ladies called her. And my goodness, she’s so pretty. I’m a lucky guy. I just smiled.

Then Eva started reading. Her poem was about prostitution.

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I sold my pussy for drugs.
I did this every day for years.
I fucked my dealer and all of his friends.
I ran out of money.
I didn’t have money for drugs.
I didn’t have money for medicine.

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The poem went on. She described a typical transaction. She described her thoughts in the moments the men were inside her. She described her feelings when they came. But she got her drugs. Her drugs would always fix it. Her drugs always made the pain feel better. The poem ended like this:

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I had no drugs.
No medicine.
I had no money.
I was so sick.
I was dying.

So, I did it.
I sold my pussy for drugs.
Sometimes, they wanted my asshole, too.
I did it.
I’m sorry.

Do you still think I’m gorgeous.
I’m sorry.

Do you still want to fuck me?
I’m sorry. Do you still want me

to be your lover?
I’m sorry that I can’t be.

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The room was absolutely silent when she finished. Eva walked off the stage and fell into my arms. She was crying. I took her out of the room and into the hall.

That’s why, Tommy. That’s why I can’t have you. She started sobbing. I am literally a whore. You deserve so much better than me. You’re going to be such a great writer. I’m just so glad I got know you.

She hugged me tighter.

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I don’t know what I said to her. My memory ends with that scene in the hall. I don’t know what happened after she said that.

I just remembered her existence today. I just remembered Eva. We must have lost touch. I guess, I got busy, or maybe I just couldn’t handle her poem. I think I forced myself to forget her. I don’t know.

Eva. I’m sorry. I feel awful. I have to try to find her.

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