Shortness of Breath

Chapter Twenty

A/N: Happy belated birthday, shakilakelly! While it isn't the desired double update, it's a long one at least. Almost the length of two regular-sized updates, which is baaaasically a double update, so I'm running with it. Hope it was a beautiful day!

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Hallie - October thirty first

As I sat in Lena's very, very impressive piece of real estate that night, the only thing I could think of was that maybe I was starting to like NA. There's something about that shared pain that allows people to open up. Knowing someone's secrets, I think, allows you to trust them more than it gives you reason not to. When you know you're dealing with another addict, there's little they could tell you that will come as a surprise. You know how tough that road is, and you have so many stories yourself that every time you meet another addict you have no choice but to see theirs as normal. I liked Lena well enough, and I figured I could use a friend like her. She'd been in the program almost as long as I'd been using, and anyone that had committed that much time and patience to recovery could certainly teach me a thing or two about self-discipline. I estimated that it's not too often you meet someone whom you don't mind spending time with, and from whom you can simultaneously harvest tips and tricks that could end up saving your life down the road.

I sat on her expensive-looking couch as she poured glasses of sparkling water, the champagne of those in recovery. "You know, this is a really nice place for a drug addict," I commented, only partially in jest.

"Ouch," she said. "I don't know if that was a compliment or a character assassination."

"Did you sell back in your day?" I asked seriously.

"As a matter of fact I did for a bit, but that's not where the apartment comes from. I own the building, actually. Property tax is a fortune, but the place is inherited."

"Lucky you," I said in a tone that was more congratulatory than bitter. "From?"

"My mother. She died when I was twenty one."

"Lucky you," I repeated darkly.

"I take it your relationship with your own mother is thriving?"

"Oh, yeah, sure," I said. "In an Electra and Clytemnestra sort of way."

She scoffed as she handed me a glass. "You know, my people have a very rich history, and yet all anyone seems to get out of it is psychosexual desire and baklava."

"I didn't realize I was speaking with a Hellenic expert," I admitted.

"I grew up in Thessaloniki," she explained.

"I had no idea," I said. "You seem so at home in the DMV."

"I think anything starts to feel like home if you stay there long enough. What about you?" she asked. "What's your story?"

"I moved down here for my brother's job a while back," I explained. "Originally from Brooklyn."

"Is that where you met Sylvana?"

"Interestingly, no. Syl's actually from the West Bronx, and I'm from Crown Heights. She and I met here in DC, and she didn't move to Brooklyn until after we'd broken up almost five years ago."

"And now long has she been around?"

"Around as in within the District of Columbia, or around as in in existence?"

"Well, both, now that you mention it."

"Around thirty years," I answered quietly to the less important question.