Fake it 'til You Make It

I remember the first time that I did coke in Spain. That was the night that the love affair began. I was with Andres, a handsome Spanish lawyer. Andres was kind of a shit-head, and a liar, but he sure was fun. I had my suspicions that he liked the white stuff and without ever asking directly, I would imply that I knew what he was doing, and that it was fine--especially if he shared. We had plans for lunch. Spanish lunch isn’t exactly like American lunch. If you want to go to a restaurant, you have to go between two and four o’clock. Four o’clock came and four o’clock went.  He called to tell me that a last minute meeting came up. Fine. We made plans for dinner, but Spanish dinner-time came and went. We made plans for after dinner drinks. It was getting late. He called to tell me that maybe he should just come over. That worked for me. I was home drinking wine and writing poetry. A late night visit sounded nice. He arrived, kissed me hello, and wasted little time before offering me what he described as some excellent coke. I thought about it as he crushed the white power on his leather wallet. Nervously, I rolled up a 20 Euro note, pretending that I did stuff like this all the time. I inhaled the small line that he offered me, sat back, and decided I liked it.