Needles make me queasy. When James shoots up, he often goes into another room to spare me the sight. Even if I am sitting only a few feet away, he turns his back and asks that I not look, because he never wants me to see the needle go into his arm.
What I do see is the blood trickle from the vein afterward, like red molasses. He sucks on it to get the bleeding to stop, the way I would if I pricked my finger. Then his face goes slack and his voice gets raspy and his whole body changes. Even though I didn’t see the injection, this transformation is jarring, and I can’t help but wonder how, after a life of straight A’s and honor societies and college degrees, I am drawn to someone like James, whose life has been the opposite. I suppose I am fascinated, the way I am by other planets. I want to know what Saturn’s rings are made of or what the mountains of Mars are like.
