Mimi

I don't know what made me do it. I awoke that morning to hear Roger's raspy snoring beside me. I gazed down at his sleeping face, and kissed him silently on the lips before I slid out of the bed.

Barefoot, I crept into the small living room that took up most of my inexcusable apartment. I slid my hand underneath one of the couch cushions, in which I had a small bag of powder hidden for a few weeks. The familiar waxy texture of the small white bag between my thumb and forefinger was not foreign to me. Holding it made me feel powerful, and at the same time weak and vulnerable. All I needed was the courage to use it. But how could I betray myself, betray Roger, who was in the next room, sound asleep?

I stared down at the object in my hand, trembling. How was it possible to be afraid of such a small thing? That was it, I decided; I couldn't do it. I started towards the bathroom, preparing to flush the bag down the toilet, when I heard the floorboards creak. Before I even glanced up, I knew it was Roger.

"Mimi," he said my name quietly, almost in a sincere, forgiving way.

I refused to meet his eyes, ashamed. Roger has always been so gentle with me, and always forgiving. Which was why I was so taken aback when he rushed toward me, with an infuriated look in his eyes.