It feels like I only closed my eyes for a minute. I was so tired. The chair felt comfortable after I put my legs up on the bench. I was resting for a moment when I woke up to someone shaking me. I could barely hear them, like a whisper, until they yelled my name."Tracey...." I heard a male voice urging me to come back to the present.I felt him grasp my arm again. I can't go back into my shell again.As I open my eyes, I see his face. For a junkie boy, he has a beautiful face. Those crystal blue eyes surrounded by long lashes. He has a baby face, so round it makes you want to pinch his cheeks. He tries to grow a mustache but it comes out like a broken pattern of fuzz that looks as if it was drawn on after a drunken night of beer pong. I love his face.Things are coming into focus, I can tell he is pissed at me. What now? I ask myself. I was just waiting here while he went to see his probation officer. He asked me to wait here in the Mc Donald's next to the Hall of Justice until he got back. I must have fell asleep at the table. I was curled up with a Mc Shamrock Shake and some french fries.Then, it hits me. The shake is dripping off the corners of the table. How long have I been passed out here? The shake is spilled all over the table, slowly making a way as droplets onto the floor. Fuck, it was so delicious too. That methadone hit me extra hard. Or maybe it was the crack we smoked last night. I am not sure but I am extra tired.He pulls me up angrily "What the fuck did you do Tracey? I thought you just went to the clinic today?'I am not sure if he is angry because he thinks I have been holding out on him or because I told him I wanted to get clean. Love between two junkies is a balancing act of lies and half truths. He needs me to help him navigate the junkie landscape. I am much older and wiser to the ways of the game. I need him to remind me that I am lovable. It is a delicate relationship, one always one hit away from implosion.I have decided I need to get clean. More than needing to get clean, I want to get clean. While he smokes crack, I tell him about how I am sick of shoving needles in the soles of my feet. He pretends to listen. Last month, he was in the hospital dying from hepatitis and I brought him a few grams to keep him "well". We are both tore up from the floor up. But now, I want to get clean.As we walk back to our room, he holds my hand. He likes to hold my hand in public. No one has ever wanted to hold my hand. When you see two junkies walking down the street to cop, one is always walking in front of another. This shows they are together but it also shows what comes first. It shows "I am sick and I will leave you to get this drug first". He always likes to hold my hand. If I am too fucked up on klonopins, he will half way carry me because he loves me. If I lock him out, he will scream for me to come down "TRACCCCCCCCEEEEEEEEEEYYYYYYYYYY!" I guess I love him because he never lets me down. He is just as fucked up as me. It makes things easier.I scratch my wrist using my free hand. I feel like I want to scratch the damn thing off. I have seen him use nail clippers to dig at every little spot along his hand until they are one bloody constellation of scabs.I assure him "I did not else except my methadone today. I promise".I squeeze his hand tighter. This was the truth. I drank my methadone as prescribed. This won't last long. I know where he is taking me. He isn't walking with me, he is puling me. He is pulling me like a dog on the way to the park. I have $80 in my pocket. He is pulling me to the dope track. I don't know it yet but he is going to convince me to spend all my money on a hit that I won't feel. Then he will talk me into skipping the clinic tomorrow since we will need the money. The love we have, it just won't work if I am clean. So I guess I am heading in the right direction.