She heard the hookers taking johns up against the wall. She couldn’t see them and from the sounds of it she didn’t want to, but she listened as these men ate of their flesh; listened as these women endured their mental and physical filth for another fix.
She heard the crack vial crush under her sandal. The grinding glass felt like a small torture that ran up her leg and lodged into her throat. She wished she weren’t so high. She wished she could stand up from the condom strewn bench and scream. But, she could only sit there in the secretions of strangers with empty dreams under her feet and hands docile in lap unsure of the next moment.