"Let's think about something together while we get ourselves off. What about...you're a sexy surgeon and I'm your nurse. You've just finished surgery and you're up to your elbows in blood..."
Sawyer's eyes snap open, "Honey, up to my elbow in blood? That was you last Friday night, honey!"
Natasha wheezes soundlessly, shaking until the tiny fairy lights wrapped around the bedhead rattle against the wall.
"Shut your eyes! Let me think of something calmer. We're on holiday in the south of France. You've been sweating all day and your skin is tacky and tastes of salt, and you're on a sunbed. You've got your hat over your face to shield your eyes. And I'm between your legs, licking you really slowly...."
Sawyer wrinkles her nose, "No, I don't want to imagine being sweaty. I want a story about fucking the hot yoga teacher."
Natasha groans. "So, I'm at a yoga class and I can't really be bothered to be there because my head hurts and I've got a tickly throat. But this woman walks in wearing a bra and leggings. Which is not a proper outfit and I should probably alert the authorities."
Sawyer sniggers into her pillow, "But you don't, because you want to fuck her right away."
"That's right, I do" Natasha rubs her nose into Sawyer's neck. "I did,"
“I try and get you to do Halasana," She continues.
"Which is?"
"Plow pose. Because I'm going to plow you. Obviously."
Sawyer giggles again, "Go on."
"And you're doing so good. You are strong, and you let me bend your legs exactly how I want them. When I step back you keep them there because you're so good at doing that for me."
Sawyer rolls her hips back against Natasha and hums.
"And I move around you, so I can make sure your toes are correct. I kneel beside your head and you can smell how wet I am already."
Sawyer hums again, but her hips are already slowing down. She's definitely falling asleep.
Natasha stops talking but keeps lightly rubbing at Sawyer. She moves off her clit and just rubs over her mons in slower and slower circles. Sawyer's hips stop their movements and her breathing evens out. Natasha brings her arm up to Sawyer's waist and closes her own eyes. She tries to still her mind, but it jumps erratically from image to image. She imagines eating fresh bread in France, slathered in salty butter. She imagines Sawyer up a ladder, painting what music sounds like to her, just for Natasha.
She almost yelps when Sawyer's long fingers suddenly grip tight around her wrist. Her eyes are shut but she says urgently, "If you need to smoke, don't go out in the street. Stay in here. Use the bathroom but put the fan on. It's not safe outside."
Natasha has to laugh, "This is Cambridge, not downtown Chicago." She doesn't add that she was born in this city and has been roaming the most dangerous parts since she was a teenager.
Sawyer doesn't let go, "Don't go outside, Natasha." Natasha is fairly sure that Sawyer is half dreaming and won’t remember saying this in the morning, but Natasha still doesn’t smoke outside. She waits until Sawyer is fully limp and snoring and wiggles out of the bed. She hooks her legs over the side of the bath, feet in the same puddle left from Sawyer's shower. She closes the bathroom door so the whirring of the fan doesn't wake Sawyer.
When Natasha first started in recovery, each day seemed weeks long. Over time she managed longer and longer spells between using. She was careful about using smaller dosages, not asking for the strongest supply. She’d use some of a friend’s prescription meds to top her up if she was really rattling. For the first few days she was cranky and prone to headaches. She slept for 12 hours at a time; once she ate two boxes of chicken nuggets in one go.
She tries not to think about recovery as a linear process, with a pass or a fail. She’d thrown away her phone and bought a map of the city, mercilessly marking off areas where she knows she can’t trust herself. In the last month or two of using she had experienced that famous amphetamine paranoia. It manifested in thoughts of cameras in her teeth and long black cars disappearing around corners. In recovery she was still anxious, with no distractions from the intrusive thoughts of not being good enough. She’d started NA and yoga, found a routine that worked for her. When she made her weekly call to her mom, her tone eventually turned from concern and skepticism to a kind of weary hope. For a year or two, it had seemed better than Natasha could have hoped for.
Natasha thinks of her yoga notebook. She remembers undergraduates who are now tenured professors, with children. There was a woman who came to yoga as part of her therapy after an accident. She’s now completed the Boston Marathon three times. There are women who have got married, divorced, joined a triad. By contrast, Natasha had achieved very little in the last eight years.
Natasha still thinks about killing herself. Sometimes, it's because she can't bear the repetitive inanity of decaying, waiting for death. She tricks herself by saying that she's not allowed do it today, but gives herself the permission to do it tomorrow. With the pressure off, she feels less distressed. When tomorrow comes, she does the same thing. It's effective,
