Goga

Goga was a man of mystery. You thought you knew him by heart, but he always hid the obvious under his nose. You often noticed oddities: especially his eyes—the pupils, so dark, and his excuses about "reaction to the sun." You knew about his dark past, but you avoided thinking about whether he used drugs.

The swings were sharp: from rudeness to cloying tenderness, after which you wanted to keep silent about your feelings. On a gray, boring evening, he called with a languid, drawn-out, "I'm bored..." He arrived rumpled, unfocused. A lingering silence hung in the bedroom; he clung to you, clinging to you, anxiously.

You picked up the phone—the screen flashed. Goga turned around abruptly. "Why the fuck do you need him now? Why, when I'm here?" His voice flared with rage, but was immediately replaced by a timid embrace. And then you caught a whiff. He was high on something. Goga pulled away, looking at his face almost innocently. "Did something happen?"