I hate it. She smiled wickedly and squeezed my thigh.

Well, these days we're gonna get caught. I pleaded uselessly.

Exactly! She clamored up the chain-linked fence, leaving a muddy footprint on the no-trust-passing

sign. It should up lightly under the ground on the other side and assumed a ta-da pose.

Her curly black hair was dampening under a light rain. A fog crept in around us.

If I got pinched with the trespassing, they'd violate my probation.

Do not pass, go. Straight to jail. My heart raised.

Got dammit, I'm muttered. As I clumsily hoisted myself over the fence after her, I met her

at about two weeks ago at St. Paul's at an AA meeting. Styrofoam cup in one hand, cigarette

in the other. Haunting dark eyes that have seemed too much.

I don't buy love at first sight. But it was something like that.

This sort of love that a junkie has for that new fix.

I slipped on the other side of the fence nearly falling into the mud, as soon as you laughed

or titted in the darkness. This chievy eye has glowed against her cigarette.

Careful. Soft pups of smoke unnunciated the syllables.

We crept towards the massive and abandoned complex of what used to be the state hospital.

At this point was still operational. We'd both be right at home.

Where he's tired weeds, soaked in my jeans, we pressed quietly forward hundreds of dark

windows watch our approach silently. I had an uneasy feeling that we were being watched.

You feel that? Like somebody's watching us. My laugh was forced here.

She raised an eyebrow and blew a cloud of smoke into my face. He'd better give my show

them. Atix never really cured. We just swap vices. Pills for weed, dope for booze, nicotine

...