Opium

by Nick Yee

A heavy veil of pungent smoke strokes his body, and for one brief moment, he can believe that he is no longer alone. He can believe that the wisp of feminine grace is caressing him gently. But then the moment is gone. Snatched away by the winter zephyrs.

Stepping out into the darkness, the night has become relentlessly colder. He clutches his sleeves against his frail body. In that same opium den a few weeks ago, he found a warmth, but now the memory only lingers to haunt him. He wonders whether he will ever find that warmth again.

He had pawned his winter quilt, and the unusually cold winter has become merciless. Even in his dreams, he is shivering. He will go buy his quilt back, he tells himself. He will stay away from the den for a few days, and save the money for his quilt. But the howling winds drown his mutterings.

There is a kind of cold that seeps into the heart slowly, imperceptibly, until a desperation seizes the soul - a desperation that is willing to bleed itself for one brief moment of warmth. And each day, he passes the den coming home from work. And each day, he tells himself that this is the last time he will step inside. The winters have never been this cold, and it surely will not get any colder. Perhaps he doesn't really need the quilt this winter. The opium seller smiles at him.

It begins to snow outside. The pungent wisps are now taunting him, denying him the warmth they had once promised. With each puff of smoke, he gets colder. A fear coils around his heart. And all too soon, the opium is gone, but the cold still lingers. He steps out into the night and realizes he no longer remembers how warmth feels like. He cries, but he is empty. He tries to walk home, but he has become too weak. The night swallows his hoarse whimpers.