Once, after I shot up in a pizzeria’s bathroom and the owner glared at me as I walked past him, I went outside, lit a cigarette, took a drag. A late summer wind whipped the smoke away; the hot breeze felt pleasant—as did everything: I had nowhere to go, nothing to do—except to find ways to get more dope.

I walked past convenience stores, restaurants, cafes. Sitting at a sidewalk table, a girl with brown hair sipped coffee with a friend. Some urge came over me, which I decided would be inadvertently shielded yet enhanced by my high; and I walked up to the girl, said, “I just want you to know that you’re one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen.” I wasn’t sure what kind of reaction I’d get, but I wasn’t expecting the obvious one: the girl looking down in discomfort, annoyance, pity.

I attempted to hold up my head as I walked away, though I was only able to do so because of the dope swimming through me. Stopping to light another cigarette, I told myself that I’d forget the girl. Decades later, I still tell myself that.