Junkie Lust

 
        For a while I saw him around the Mile End. Scanning the streets for cigarette butts and coin. He was a junkie. We had a lot of them. A neighborhood bar was the supplier. Everyone knew, but nothing was done about it. Payoffs. He had a good bicycle – probably lifted – and always looked dirty and ragged. He was young, maybe twenty years my junior – sported a bandana, tall, lean and possessed fine chiseled features. Good stock gone badly. Tasty. I fancied him.
        He didn’t notice me and I never saw him panhandling. The street was his dig, dusting treasures like an archeologist. Tucking them away in his pockets for safekeeping. Occasionally I saw him squeegee, non-aggressive and proud. My flat was near up a tree-lined avenue with groomed gardens in every yard, where people hang on their stoops and wrought-iron balconies draped in flowers and vine. They don’t miss a thing, like a one-street town, a sheriff on every block.
        I thought about how I’d approach him. Offer him money. Go back a few times – start up a conversation. Inquire if he’d care for a shower and meal. Devour him. Get him past the nosy neighbors. Confine him. He wouldn’t be attracted to my loose flesh and furrowed brow. Veins etched over my legs. Somber hollows under my eyes. Maybe he’d take a hit before we started? Travel a hot tunnel. Be somewhere far away. I saw him in the park waiting for his dealer. Jerking about like a spear fisherman. Scouting the sod and sidewalk for prey. The sun bounced off his torso. His jawline eclipsed. I headed over and handed him a large bill.