Sometimes Don Juan enjoyed all of the various indulgences that could be found around the edges of polite society without much ado; dipped in, stayed high for a while, glided out again, did some of his writing in his windows of sobriety. Sometimes the comedown hit him harder. If he hadn't eaten much before he'd started, or there was something off about whatever he'd taken, or he had been coming down with a cold, or any number of other practically invisible and unavoidable factors. He could tell when he was going to have a nasty withdrawal, and sometimes he could stomach it. Sometimes, though, the physical symptoms started and were then followed by an exquisite self-devised mental torture: remembering the first times he'd felt this way, the first time he'd tried to cut back, and the person who had been there helping him through — a person he'd chased away through his own poor choices. When that happened, he didn't stick out the withdrawal and circle back to sobriety. When that happened, he took more, and more, and more, until the memory was lost in the haze and he was once again physically relaxed and mentally unburdened.

This had been the series of events that had led to his being mistaken for a chair at Limehouse opium den. Don Juan was high enough that his eyes didn't focus right away, even after he slowly batted them open. He didn't know who was talking to him, or what they were talking about, or why, but he managed to catch the last sentence and parse out the words. Forget me this time too.

"If you like," Don Juan muttered, amicably enough. He was no stranger to nearly-anonymous sexual encounters in the darkened rooms of drug-riddled, poorly furnished venues, and this had the shape of one. He moved his hand to his face, covering the stranger's hand and holding it flat to his cheek as a sign that he was amenable to being touched. "You're cold."

---

The following 1 user Likes Don Juan Dempsey's post:1 user Likes Don Juan Dempsey's post
   Dean Hudson