There's another from that period I have no pics of at all, although I remember her vividly.
She was an attorney and a heroin addict. Speedballs for the most part. We'd get high, race her expensive Italian sports car around blind curves in the Santa Cruz mountains or the Sierra Nevada, usually with me driving which is why I'm still alive. Her sex thing was all about video tape so it's likely I'm a naked movie star somewhere. Or maybe not, 'cos I can't imagine she lived through all that.
I liked her. She was fucked up and genuine. She wanted love and children but much of the time she could barely stand. We tried to take care of each other but good luck with that. In B&Bs all over NorCal we'd shoot up (her) or chase the dragon (me) and in the night I'd hold her while she shook from fear, or rage, or withdrawal.
There's a burn scar on my lower lip from one of those nights. I was careless with the glass, now there's a black welt right on my kisser. I wear it with pride that I'm still here.
I should have gotten help, instead I got her. She can say the same of me. Help for severe depression, for addiction, for wanting to be not awake either night or day, except behind the wheel of her expensive Italian sports car where I felt that being awake was a good idea.