November 29 2002:
Wild child. Eats instant coffee with a spoon, for the caffeine. Last week she quit her job at a fro-yo store where her boss, the owner, was her meth connection. In withdrawal she's determined, and angry, and just a little frightened.
The hint of pain in her blue blue eyes. Someone's mistreated her, somewhere. So young to be hurt like that: just twenty-two.
"I don't date guys who do cocaine. Half the time they can't get fully hard."
Arrogant. Enjoys the game of breaking hearts. Talks about lunches together, drinks, trips to Mexico, days in the mountains. Insincere: she merely wants me to want her. I do. How proud I am to hold her hand as we walk near Children's Cove in the cool evening. Later in the week she invites me to her house to watch movies in her parents' absence, just like high school.
One morning her glee is triumphal: some flash guy fell over himself in the bar the night before. "I totally burned him. Ha ha ha ha ha ha!" Sex as the final indignity of a war people wage for status and ego.
Blond, tall, strong. Highschool cheerleader. La Jolla girl. Perfect white teeth. Through her first months post-meth she crashes every night at 7pm, like clockwork. My favorite thing in the world is to make her laugh.
October 18, 1989.
Dear Mark:
I'm so worried since the news about the earthquake yesterday! The phones are still down and I can't reach you. Please write right away and let me know you're safe.
Love,
Wild Child