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A private invitation circulated among a thousand hand-selected email addresses with a strict first-come-first-serve directive for a very limited amount of tickets. The attachment had a Dark Knight feel. It promised a very exclusive get-together at a mansion in Brookhaven for one night. It cost 3K but specifically said the price included the “drugs.” An e-money transfer was required to secure a spot at a party. Strictly hush-hush, as everyone knows this would violate the State’s limits on private gatherings under the new epidemic bylaw.

“That’s a Sunday. I won’t be able to go.”

“Oh,” I managed to utter. I let a big moment pass. Then, he said, “Would you still be able to go and score a dose to bring back to me?” I didn’t expect to hear that. It’ll take some finagling, but I think it could work. “Sure,” I said, unsure. Within minutes, I got the money — which I transferred to the party people. There was a lot of worrying before all the parties started happening. Easier to hide in a crowd. Next, they’ll have to target all the luxury AirLUXs.

The directions were obscure. I blasted Bowie while I drove the rental down winding hilly roads. “The sound machine is coming down/and we’re gonna have a party, yeah yeah yeah.” I had to admit to myself finally that it was about Lisa, and maybe we could “casually” run into each other and finally have a word. I didn’t consciously want to admit that I wanted to run into her. It’s too late to drive back. Forget about it. Could you do it for Dylan’s dose? Yeah, we can all use some relaxation. Everybody’s getting so tense.

There was a traffic jam of cars up to the driveway—honking sounds: chaos lit by flashing blue and red lights from two cop cars. I got there too late. Grrr. All I could think about was Dylan. How can I explain this to him? Could I randomly stumble onto the full cardboard box they threw away behind maybe those bougainvilleas? Perhaps, it’s behind a garden Buddha, I thought. At the last injection party I’d gone to, the vaccines were in individual foil blister packs. I need two; I heard myself rehearse the request in my head if I should have a run-in with someone. I changed the radio station. News, I thought, Nah. They wouldn’t have anything on this now this fast, would they? All I could find was music noise. I inched forward in my car. About five cars ahead, a car started honking. I kept my eyes out for small boxes. Lawn. Grass. Bush. Solar light ornament. Rake.

I told myself: think like an Amazon porch thief — develop an eagle eye for cardboard. Eyelike magpie catching the glint of tin foil blister packs. A hunger for needles like a veteran junky. They probably forgot to disable the security cameras; I thought, I bet that’s what happened. The owner tipped off the police. Cars were turning around, jumping up on curbs. I’m stuck between a classic slate Mercedes and a flashy red Porsche. I debated what to do. Through the windshield of the Porsche, I can see the occupants are two blonde girls wearing wayfarer shades. The driver was smoking a long white cigarette. She flashed her eggshell nail polish on long salon-manicured fingernails. Smoke trailed out her barely opened window. I realized that it was Lisa.

First thing I think about when I go to sleep. She’s the first thing I think about when I wake up. I toss and do a thousand meditations. I outsmart myself and insert an image of her here and there. I can’t get away. I can’t sleep. I don’t want to take pills. I don’t want to drink Sleepy Time tea; it just makes me pee in the middle of the night. The worst thing about a breakup is the unfamiliar tea boxes in the cupboard. It can’t get much worse than Smooth Move, Ginger Aid and Sleepy Time. My heart breaks every time I tear open a packet.