"Kif, hashish, pipes, tobacco and papers," he said, "and in the cupboard you will find wine, brandy, arak ... there also beer in this little fridge." Ed must have prepared Hassan with information as to our romantic status, because when he finally withdrew, he wished us a good night with a distinctly prurient twinkle in his dark brown eyes. We were alone together in the lap of Moroccan luxury, still gasping like a couple of schoolgirls let loose in Harvey Nichols as we explored, ooh-ing and ah-ing with delight. Too thrilled to go to sleep, Em poured herself a whisky, and watched as I rolled a joint with very out of practice fingers."Well, when in Morocco," I laughed."You know, I've never touched any of that stuff, never so much as had a puff in my whole life," she said curiously as she lit the joint for me, and a Senior Service for herself.Since the light and dark days of 1973 when my flirtation with morphine had driven me into Em's arms, and my ill-timed relapse in jail, I smoked dope. Did he not care that my life with my family would be over if I got pregnant? Did he have an STD? I assumed that he did not care about anyone but himself. I pulled out my phone and called Stacey but she did not answer. I left a message asking her to come pick me up and where I was. I crawled to the nearest sidewalk and begin crying again. I wasn’t sure if she would be able to come but it did not matter. There was no way I could walk home right now. I kept checking my phone in between the sobs and sniffles but there is nothing from her. I felt alone and scared and I did not know what to do. Memories of my two previous boyfriends flooded my mind. This situation is a little different and I was not dating Mitchel but the pain was just a real and just as devastating as before. My phone rang and I answered as fast as I could. Within five minutes, Stacey pulled up in her old car, squeaking and spewing black exhaust. As she drove me home, I told her everything on the way. She was just as.
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