White Powder Blues
"If you walk out that door, we're finished," I said.
He faced me directly.
"Don't threaten me," he said muttered quietly.
Matted, oily hair matched clothes he hadn't changed for days. His dark eyes were incapable of focusing. This was the new him, the cocaine addict who'd lost control of life, no longer the attractive, intelligent man I'd once loved deeply.
I wanted him to stay. I knew I was pleading, on my knees, sobbing loudly in front of him.
Then came silence. He looked away. Neither of us moved a muscle or spoke another word.