The grizzled junkie led Irina into his tiny home. It was although a wave of litter had washed up from the nearby sea, and was left behind by the tide. Dimebags, needles, take-out boxes, chips and Coronas lay dormant on the floor. He carefully navigated her through the mess and set her down on the torn bed sheets. He sat in a grimy chair and watched her. He went to say something, but stopped before the words fell out. Irina’s skirt rode up around her thin legs when she sat. She wore a low-cut crop top which left little to the imagination. All she carried was a cheap handbag, softmints and the fifty dollars John had paid her. She looked up at him expectantly and went to stroke him through his paint splattered jeans. He wore work boots and his hands felt like sandpaper. “No.” Irina, confused, struggled to conjure up the required English words. She was weighing up two phrases against each other when he pulled a baggie out of his pocket. His movements were suddenly graceful and practiced; he emptied some of the powder onto a small, rusted spoon and held it over a spluttering flame, where it melted into a liquid. They waited in unison as a metallic smell filled the trailer. He tapped the side of a syringe twice and used its sharp point to fill its chamber with cloudy water. John looked up from his task to give Irina a weak smile.

“Help me, please.” Irina shuffled forward and held onto his arm while he pushed his poison into a familiar track mark.

“That’s a creeper, baby… That’s a creeper for sure.” John searched the young woman’s face thoroughly, seeking confirmation. Her eyes and smile were vacant. She mouthed an incoherent phrase and stroked the top of his thigh with her skeletal fingers, which were tipped with a chipped acrylic. He leaned back in the faded armchair and stuck out his tongue. It hung out of his lips while the high took over. He dragged a finger along his skinny arm; from the crimson red scab where he shot-up and down a bright blue vein, hidden amongst tattoos, as if tracking the spread of heroin throughout his body. “That’s a creeper… Ha ha! What’d I fuckin tell you? Oh, baby…”

He fell into a sudden slumber. One eye half-open, staring up at a dreary ceiling fan which pushed musty air with a hint of reluctance. Some men required so much more of Irina. They would wriggle around on top of her for hours before shuddering, gasping and planting a wet kiss on her pale neck. Others, who typically had a doting wife and a 401k, would finish quickly and leave with their toupee disheveled. John Emerson, a Pleasant Valley Trailer Park native, didn't even need her to push down her torn tights. He just wanted somebody to stroke his hair while the heroin took over.