“Hey, is Rejine there?” he says, tentative, “it’s Name2.”
“Oh she’s sleeping right now,” the other man replies.  Name2 looks down to see her resume and immediately feels chagrined.  “It’s Rajina, what was I thinking.”
“Does he know you?”  That’s what he was thinking, not sure if it applied to him or her boyfriend.
Now he’s depressed.  Not badly, a good depressed, the kind that feels silly, and thus so much more bearable.   Though so much is silly, it’s hard to keep perspective.  Rajina.  Rajina Dandolova.  Bulgarian, believe it or not.
He’d just got home, and the multitude of things that struck him on his ride home!  E.g. “I’m hurrying to get home because I can’t wait to be with her, not can’t wait to get stoned.”  One addiction for another, but a fair trade.
“Does he know her?”  This time, it was about her boyfriend.  “How can he know her like I know her, since… she is me.  Kindred spirits, to be safe.  Compatible, to be really safe.  Soul mates to be extremely dangerous.  So precarious a dance, on an edge the width of social convention, but so intriguing.  She can’t know him, can’t challenge him, if she’s me, she’ll be back, she’s been with me nearly constantly for 3 days.  If she’s like me, she’s an addict, she’ll be back.”
Then again.
“Maybe she knows what’s bad for her, and be all the more apprehensive of returning.  But that would just compel me, and if she’s me…  If…”   She left all sorts of markings though, clothing items, her resume…  Her resume: the artifice, the deux des machina (a word he found, in the dictionary, just for her, and she enjoyed it).  Nonetheless, it must be done, they’d smoked it further and further away, but it must be done.
“What of the pot, is it glue?  Is it device?  Is it just convenient artifice to continue playing a game neither of us wanted to end.
“Or are the perceived emotions the artifice.”  No, too bleak, and foolish on top of that.  Still, things are too complex…  She wants to be his cat, but she wants to be his cat too.  He told her his cat can only have one owner or no owner, but he’s not about to take in a cat, and let her go off to some other home.
“Does she love me?  Is she sleeping?”  Mary Jane’s calling me from my drawer, my steady fuck, my obedient dog.  But I’m a cat person.  Fuck.  So I will wait, with my door open, and see what drags in.