The wound was clean, already the blood had dried. Maria looked at the palm of her hand where Carlos’s blade had cut her. She didn’t feel anything, not exactly. At the time she was high as a kite, and by the time she came down from her trip they had already bandaged her. She didn’t even need any stitches. Carlos was passed out, face down, on the ratty couch by the corner of their place. Sonuvabitch.
Maria stumbled over there, still woozy from her rush. Carlos was her fuck buddy. They weren’t dating or anything. Neither one had the emotional attachment, or the energy, for that. But it got cold in the empty derelict building they nested in, like the city rats that they were. Besides, he smelled good.
Her hand smacked the back of his shaved head hard, making it move sideways, then lay still. Carlos did not stir. Maria saw an empty syringe and a rubber band on the rotten floor boards next to the couch. She wanted to laugh at how stupid this whole mess was, but tears blinded her and she had to wipe them several times.