I pinch the fleshy part of the skin between the fingers on my right hand and convince myself that I’m not dead. The absence of echoes in my chest, my heart could have stopped beating, but the blood sloshes through tired veins. My breaths are panicked, air wavering through my nose and mouth like a broken vacuum. There’s a touch of pink in the sky, a small wound in the few clouds above my head.

Traffic hums in the busy street and each passing car makes me flinch. I look down at my wrist to see what time it is, but it’s bare and absent of a watch. It seems like I’ve been waiting for Chloe for years, but the dying sun tells me it’s probably only been twenty minutes. The door to the sushi dive behind me jingles on each opening and closing and I resist the urge to walk in before Chloe gets here.

Three elderly women walk past me on the sidewalk, each carrying bright orange shopping bags. Their chatter is silent, I see only their lips move. I turn and lean against the comfort of the restaurant’s brown and red brick wall, pull a cigarette out of the few left in the pack. I light it with a quick motion and its rosy tip is my personal burning star.

The early evening breeze is cool and undaunted, grazing my backside with gentle force. I steal a glance of an older woman’s cleavage as she walks into the restaurant, the hint of a rose tattoo amidst orange-tanned skin. The word “sushi” is illuminated in capital letters in the neon green sign in the upper left hand side of the front window. Small bright spots dance in front of my eyes like firecrackers.

Cold flesh hits underneath my jacket and above my waist, startling me. I turn around and see Chloe. She smiles and runs her hands along my jacket zipper, white painted fingernails bumping along each jagged edge of metal. Her hands are tiny, like a schoolgirl’s. She’s wearing tight faded jeans, a black t-shirt and an olive green jacket.

“You haven’t been waiting too long, I hope,” she says. “You know how things are.’

I smile and cross my arms.

She rubs the edge of my elbow and it’s too hard to stop thinking about her body for more than two or three minutes in a row. She has eyes that could frost the surface of a highway. Chloe nods in the direction of the restaurant and I follow her in. She walks in confident steps, as if already knowing that every guy in the place is going to stare at her upon her entrance. There’s a young couple presumably on a date in the front booth, a group of hipsters sitting at three connected tables to the side. A Japanese new wave tune plays in the background, a girl with a squeaky voice repeating the same line over and over.

Chloe points in the direction of an empty booth and sits down. I sit across from her and close my eyes for a moment, hands at my sides and stuck to the fake red leather below me. The waitress, a short Japanese girl with golden streaks in her black hair, places two menus on the table and smiles, then walks away.

“I already know what I want,” Chloe says.

“You always do,” I say.

She taps her fingers on the table and stares at me, as if bored with this restaurant and bored of my company. “You don’t have to go through with this if you don’t want to,” she says. “I’ve told you that a hundred times.”

“And I’ve given you the same fucking answer a hundred times,” I say. “I’m ready, and I’m going to help you.”

Chloe bites her lip and looks at the couple in the front of the restaurant. She flips a bit of hair out of her face. “Fine,” she says. “I told Hank that we’d be there by ten.”

I nod and look at my menu. The waitress walks over and Chloe orders the spicy tuna roll and abeer. I order the same and the little Japanese girl bows and heads to the kitchen to get our drinks. I take a deep breath and gaze at Chloe, her narrow cheekbones and the small bits of blush parallel to her nose. The things I’ll do for love are the things I’ll always regret.

#

Chloe’s car holds the remains of old styrofoam coffee cups and empty cigarette boxes, but smells like a mix of blueberry and autumn. She keeps her hands at ten and two on the wheel, eyes focused and staring straight ahead. The road is a mirror of green and purple light, my mind lost somewhere in the haze of the night. The radio is turned off but Chloe hums her own tune, taking small breaths in between verses.

She stops at a red light and looks at me, smiles. I think she can feel my fear, feel the way that my eyes dart back and forth between the street and my hands. Chloe is a beacon of solitude and I don’t think that I’ve ever seen her afraid of anything.

“We’re almost there,” she says.

I stay silent and watch the buildings pass by on my right, somewhat aware that we’re entering a seedy part of town. Chloe turns the car into the parking lot to the side of a rundown apartment building with beige balconies on every floor. From the outside, it looks like a welfare crack den from the late ‘70s. I never question Chloe and tonight will be no different.

We get out of the car and she embraces me in a hug, kisses the t-shirt below my jacket. Her lips send a shockwave of warmth throughout my chest, my arms, and for only now I can feel my heart beating again, each thump loud enough to split my eardrums. We look at each other for a full minute before she lets her arms fall to the side.

“Can you get my bag out of the trunk?” she says.

She presses a button on her keys and the trunk opens. I push away the piles of clothes and a briefcase to get to the small blue duffel bag in the corner. It looks light, but probably weighs ten pounds. Chloe takes my hand and we walk slowly past the other cars in the lot. She pauses at a red Thunderbird with black stripes and says that it’s Hank’s car. When she says his name she winces, like something popped in her stomach. We keep walking and head up the two flights of concrete stairs, each step echoing in the night.

Chloe stops at the double doors of the entrance and turns to me, holding my hands in hers. Her brunette hair hangs in front of her eyes like dead tree limbs. Her eyes are now serene, the calm before our night begins.

“Remember,” she says. “If there’s too much blood, you can always close your eyes.”

#

We’re on the seventh floor of the apartment building, just outside of room 717. The tangy odor of foreign foods is prevalent in the hallway, which looks like an endless array of chipped brown doors and dirty green carpet. Fluorescent lights on the ceiling trap various dead insects, a dull shine that does nothing for the mood of this building, does nothing for the mood of this evening.

Chloe takes a deep breath before knocking. Three loud raps and Hank shouts something from the other side. He answers the door wearing navy blue khakis, a Led Zeppelin t-shirt and aged cowboy boots. He could be in his early fifties, a swarm of gray and black hair on his head like that of a spider monkey.

“You’re late,” he says. “I want this thing out of my fucking apartment, Chloe.”

Chloe pushes her way in and I follow behind. Hank frowns when I walk past him, seemingly not expecting my presence in Chloe’s work tonight. He smells like a casino and the rest of his apartment has the décor of a middle-aged bachelor, vomit-colored carpet and a single recliner in the living room. The television is small, its antennas rusted. The kitchen is bright and the ceiling fan spins with delight.

Hank points to the refrigerator and makes a drinking motion with his hands. “Beer, anyone?” he says.

Both Chloe and I shake our heads and she takes a seat at the pine kitchen table. She points to the blue duffel bag and I set it on the table, a quick clanking of metal when it rests. Hank puts his hands on his hips and leans against the wall, looking Chloe up and down, staring at her crossed legs. I feel a quick urge to wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze, but I resist.

Chloe fidgets in her chair, feet tapping the yellow linoleum floor. “How long has it been here?” she says. “It’s important to know.”

Hank coughs and spits something into the sink amidst a mess of dirty dishes and a single silver pot. “It got here this morning,” he says. “Your friend from Venezuela knocked at my fucking door at four in the morning and left it here.”

Chloe lets out a small giggle and winks at me, the plush residue of affection dripping from my heart. Her shoulder blades have more definition when she laughs and I picture myself on top of her, rosy red cheeks bursting with a mix of sexual prowess and unfiltered passion. The vision fades when Hank’s voice fills the room, a deep growl that I’m sure is a lot tougher than his bite.

“Please, let’s get to work, Chloe,” he says.

Chloe nods and she gets out of her chair in slow motion, a stellar green trail of haze behind her. My eyes blink three times and I know that four nights without sleep has taken a toll on my body. I shove my hands in my pocket and rattle the change, hoping to wake myself with the slight ringing of metal coins. Hank snaps his fingers and points in my direction. He walks over and places a hand on my shoulder, pinches the jacket and tilts his head.

“You look like a tired surfer,” he says. “Maybe you should take a nap or something.”

I push his hand away and follow Chloe, who’s already in the spare bedroom. The door is masked in various bumper stickers and rock band logos. She turns the doorknob and a mass of insipid light surrounds her, illuminating her body in a peculiar glow. She stands silent for a moment then walks into the room. Hank steps in front of me and heads into the room behind Chloe and slams the door. I can hear Chloe shouting at him and telling him that she won’t take out the package unless I’m in the room with her. Hank swears and opens the door.

“Alright cowboy, you can come in,” he says.

Chloe kneels next to a naked man on the floor, coil springs of the mattress protruding from the spots that his body isn’t covering. He’s skinny and looks like an anorexic version of a washed up Mexican heroin addict, olive skin and jet black hair. Chloe reaches into the duffel bag and pulls out a pair of latex gloves. She traces a finger around his nipples and down to the center of his abdomen, pausing for a moment to look up at me. Our eyes dance for a few seconds and I have to look away. She pokes the man’s sides twice before rubbing the area above his left kidney.

“This is it,” she says.

Hank takes a deep breath. “Finally,” he says.

Chloe taps the carpet next to her and I sit down. She leans over and whispers into my ear, cold traces of the world we share. She points to the duffel bag and I know exactly what she needs. I reach in and find the slender, black velvet box and a pair of metal prongs. She gives me a light kiss on the cheek when I hand them to her.

Hank reaches over to the bookshelf against the wall and grabs the rubbing alcohol. He hands it to Chloe, who opens it and pours a small amount on the naked man’s skin. A tiny trail of the clear liquid slithers down his side and onto the mattress, falling into a crevasse between pieces of the dirty white fabric. Chloe removes the scalpel from the black box and cuts into him, slowly at first. A woman with a sharp object is the most beautiful sight that has ever graced my eyes.

Blood trickles from the wound and Chloe continues to work, crimson smears on her latex gloves. She slides her hand into the naked man and taps my arm with the other. There’s one more set of gloves in the bag for me and it’s my turn to reach into the blood. I place the metal prongs into the wound and spread apart the skin, flesh curling upwards like rotten linoleum.

Hank turns away and rests his face against the wall. “I can’t watch,” he says.

Chloe smiles and blows me a kiss. Her hand disappears further into the naked man and her face turns red with frustration. Her eyes widen and she pulls out a small plastic bag, a cocoon of dark matter wrapped tightly within. She places it on the body’s chest and looks at Hank.

“There it is,” she says. “Nearly thirteen or fourteen ounces of heroin, I think.”

She hands me the scalpel, but I fumble it and it pierces the tip of my thumb. I bring it to my chest and blood oozes onto my shirt. The pain is constant and sharp, a blanket of black lightning throughout my bones. Chloe stands up and I wave my hand. “I’ll be fine,” I say.

Chloe removes her gloves and throws them on the floor. She leans down and rubs the bottom of my ear and her touch removes the sharp tinges of pain for only a moment. Hank snatches the package from the naked man’s chest and points in the direction of the doorway. “You can wash up in the bathroom,” he says.

The prongs are still in the body’s wound and I pry them out of the opening, wrapping them in a small brown towel that was next to the mattress. Chloe and I leave the room and before we get to the bathroom, she mouths three words that I haven’t heard since she’s been back in town.

The bathroom is unusually large for the size of Hank’s apartment. A stack of yellow towels adorn a small cabinet next to the shower. Chloe turns on the water and a steady stream washes her hands. I clean the prongs and hand them to Chloe, who leaves the bathroom. It’s usually at these moments that she’ll ask for the money and I always feel uncomfortable listening to the exchange. A splash of water on my face feels like heaven.

I walk into the tail end of Chloe and Hank’s conversation. “His last name was Viscomy,” he says to her. He hands her a small black trash bag and I can see that she’s forcing a smile. This must be the way that a strict business mind works. Chloe takes my hand and we leave without saying goodbye to Hank. The hallway smells different than before, more like a morgue than a mix of culture.

Chloe speaks first when we leave the building and reach her car. “This next part is always the hardest,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

I remain silent and lean into what’s left of her sweetness, place a single kiss on her forehead. “Don’t worry,” I say.

She removes the briefcase from the trunk and dumps the contents of the trash bag. I won’t ask her the amount, but I can tell that there’s probably at least ten thousand dollars there. The dirty orange glow from the moon above, we stare at each other for a few seconds before Chloe starts the engine.

#

It only takes twenty minutes to get to the airport. Even at this time of night, the rumble of taxis and shuttle buses are prevalent at each terminal, the mechanical noise of beeping horns a near symphony in my tired mind. Chloe pulls the car into the short-term parking garage and sighs.

She holds my hand and rubs a finger against the wound. “A few days and that’ll heal up,” she says.

I nod and pull my hand away. She sighs again and opens the door. The parking garage air is heavy and my lungs feel like balloons filled with motor oil. We walk to Terminal C without saying a word to each other. Chloe keeps her messenger bag tight against her chest while I hold the steel briefcase.

The bright lights burn my eyes for a few seconds then quickly adjust. Eager people watch the vast array of television screens next to the opening gate, all waiting for that special person to land. All gazing at flight numbers and letters like light to the flies.

“You never pick me up at the airport,” Chloe says. “I always have to get a taxi and come to you. That should change the next time I’m here.”

My blood eases into veins and arteries and I smile. “I promise the next time you’re here, I’ll pick you up,” I say.

She rests her head against my chest and I can feel the memories seeping into her brain, every night that ended with the two of us in the middle of the airport, every night that she would tell me that crying wasn’t necessary because she knew that she’d eventually see me again. The sound of people rushing to their gate as they pass by, I push Chloe away and take her hand in mine.

She opens her messenger bag and folds the ticket in half. “My flight leaves in less than an hour,” she says. “Maybe I should start to pass through security now.

A deep breath stuck in my throat, I let it out and walk to the end of the security line. An elderly couple in bright clothing lift their bags onto the conveyor belt while a twenty something security agent asks them both to remove their shoes.

Chloe looks up at me, eyes that might burst with water at any moment. “I’m sorry it has to be this way,” she says. “I’m sorry that we keep doing this to each other.”

Hair stands on edge and I can’t say anything to her, can’t find the words that could define the depths of my heart. All I can do is wrap my arms around her, smell the tinges of lilac and cinnamon in her hair.

“Soon,” I say. And I let her go, refusing to look back. I’ve never once looked back at this point. I usually keep walking until I’m back in her car, the urge to unleash an apocalyptic scream fading with each step.

I pass by the men’s restroom and figure that I should stop in before beginning my ride home. My reflection in the bathroom mirror reminds me that there’s blood on my t-shirt. I unzip in front of the urinal and stare ahead. The man standing next to me peers over with a casual gape, eyes pinpointed at the various stains on my shirt. He has the look of someone who wishes the world would end.

“Is that your blood?” he says.