That was the thing about selling drugs. You learned that people didn’t want happiness. They wanted control. They wanted the dial. And love—real love—refused to be dosed.
Instead, she sat on the floor where they’d kissed, and let the memory of him stay—sharp, stupid, human. No suppressant. No cure. Just the ache.
Mara felt a small, familiar ache behind her ribs. That was the problem with selling peace: you started wanting it for yourself. love and other drugs
It was the only one that worked.
“Nothing you want.”
“It’s never just pollen,” she replied, and slid a small glass vial across the counter. Inside, a liquid the color of a dying sunset. “Try this. One drop under the tongue. Tastes like burnt sugar and regret.”
“It worked,” he said. “I forgot why I came to this city. Forgot the sound of her leaving. Forgot my own name for about an hour. It was… quiet.” That was the thing about selling drugs
Then he found the locked cabinet.