Rachel

One evening, I was dazed by alcohol and caffeine. The skies were wide open above me, and I saw a piece of cloud merging with the concrete building across.

I sat on the bed naked, talking to her on the phone. She told me, "I was in the hospital a few days ago. I swallowed some pills: mind-altering, serotonin-stimulating, loneliness-reducing, insanity-inhibiting." She told me her roommate found her drooling on the sofa in a state of advanced stupor and called the authorities. "I also remember fluorescent lights, stomach pumping, and a psychiatrist who talked to me on my sickbed," that's how she told me while I was lying on the bed, curling smoke in silence.

I didn't know what to say. I wanted to tell her – “Next time don't stop halfway, love”. But only a faint remark escaped me: "I miss you." She was a good woman. She had a firm ass and freckles on her nose. She used to send me poems she wrote, signing them each time with the same echoing line - "Yours, Rachel, your younger daughter." And I always wanted to reply: "Listen, you write like shit," even though she wrote better than me.

She continued to write and tell about a world that had lost its passion and compassion and its God. Every Friday morning, I would open my email and find two new poems from her. Sometimes I would write to her, "Amazing." Sometimes, that God gives writing talent to those he wants to take revenge on. At times, I would write my reasoned opinion in comments and send it back to her.

I also remember she had freckles on her stomach and two large ones on her thigh. And that I remember very well, because it was during the time when I was lonely as a motherfucker, looking for someone to find solace in. She was a beautiful fuck, and all I wanted was to take her to bed already and cling to some cheap touch. What I remember the most is that after I would cum in her mouth or digestive system, depending on the period, we would hug for a long time. Her head was pressed against my shoulder, and I would stroke her pitch-black hair. Then I would read to her words I wrote and wait for her responses. She used to tell me, "You write beautifully", even though she wrote much better than me

In the end, she hung up.

I miss you, kiddo.