It’s his addiction. His only one, he promises. He knows it’s wrong, knows he should quit, but the two times he tried to get help had gone terribly wrong. He isn't bad, he’s just human, and humans get addicted to things, right? To cigarettes, lovers, drugs.
(The first time he did it, he knew he had to do it again. There was just something about the way it felt, sounded. Looked.)
There are a lot of quirks about addiction. The biggest one, he thinks, is that when you're not partaking in it directly, it's incredibly easy to believe you can stop. You can stop on a dime, anytime you want, no help, cold-turkey. So every time he isn't caught up in it, he's planning to stop; he's scribbling furiously in his journal about everything he can do to make it stop, to ignore the wanting. There are days and days and weeks dedicated to this scribbling, this absolute decision to stop.
(He’s out again. The daylight is gone, but the moonlight lights nearly every shadow, every corner. This is new; he has never went out with such much light. It’s too easy to get busted.)
The other biggest quirk, of course, is that whatever you think when you're not flying high with the rush of fulfillment is always a lie. There's no such thing as stopping or quitting or cold-turkey. And when you are caught in the rush, you don't want there to be; you think it's absurd that there's ever an increment of wanting there to be. So every time he comes home, when he's still floating and gloating and gloriously blissful, relieving everything he just did, he writes about this. He writes about the shockingly strong pull of it and the incredibility of all his previous plans to stop.

(The streets are quiet but crowded, when you look just right. It’s what he’s here to do. People nod as he passes them. He’s a regular in this area, never had anyone speak against him, so why shouldn’t they trust him?)
This will stay his mindset for another day, and he'll make plans for the next time. It's half the thrill of it, planning is. Sometimes it gets depressing, because he's not sure how to do it again, and it's like those kids on TV that work a hundred different, illicit jobs to keep up with their own addiction. His is free, nothing but his time and someone else's, but it requires a bit more strategy. Strategy is why it's interesting, though, because it can be a challenge every time, then.
(He has a route, not the same as last time, but a planned one. He’s only looking for one thing, and it’s never that hard to find. Pretty women litter the corners, with their tiny skirts and showy tops -sometimes only bras. A few have scarves, a silly attempt to keep themselves warm.)
After the strategy comes the hunt. It's pure instinct, like lovers sliding together under sheets. You have to be careful during the hunt, because it's when you're most likely going to be caught. It's when his heart is speeding up and his hands start to sweat and his head starts to spin and he can't wait. He is so close, so very close he could scream.
(There are only a few of these women worth looking at tonight. He doesn’t know why; maybe it’s a bad lot or maybe he’s getting pickier. Fine with him. He goes around the block once, heartbeat picking up tempo with each step. He moves to the next one when the blood moves to his head.)
It can take minutes or it can take hours, it doesn't matter. The more time there is, the more he revs up, like his body knows what’s coming, knows the bliss it’s about to get.
(He can see it coming. Feel it coming. He’s almost there. There, he found it. Her. Perfection. He shifts back into the shadows, closes the distance slowly. His breath is fast and shallow; his hands are shaking.)
And then there’s the satisfaction of the catch. Right before the real thrill. Right before the final thrill. The moment you realize it’s actually going to happen. The moment you realize there’s nothing left to stop you.
(He’s behind her now, though she doesn’t know it. She’s focused on the street, on shimmying for the cars that pass. He always thinks this should be the moment where every part of him is the tensest, the shakiest, but his hands take the brunt of tonight and they are the calmest.)
It’s like when someone hands you that bag of coke, takes your money and tells you to get out. The tension is gone because you have exactly what you wanted. It’s like when that boy across the room comes over, and you know instantly he’ll say yes, he’ll give you everything. Everything he does is practiced, but it’s also new; he never does the same thing twice.
(He jerks her backwards in one motion, into the brick walls and the darkness. There’s a gasp and he can feel her pretty neck work against his arm. He has her on the ground now, spread eagle beneath him. His hands test her strength as they slip around her throat, feel the smooth skin under his calloused fingers.)
There are a thousand ways to do anything, a thousand ways to get what he’s looking for. He likes certain ways, despises others. Only perfection can please him.
(Her muscles tense against him, and he smiles slightly. He can do this multiple ways. He can tip her chin back, back, back until it can go no farther. Or he can twist her sideways, sideways so slowly she knows what’s coming. It isn’t about breaking the bone, it’s about stretching, releasing all the beauty there is. His hand slides behind her head, over the opposite cheekbone and around the chin.)
Perfection, grace, elegance. It’s not all about the drug itself. It’s about how it’s taken. How it’s used. How it’s received.
(His grip is perfect and he admits that he really likes this method. She’s whimpering as he turns her cheek to the sidewalk. He pulls a little farther, watches as she arches up in an effort to follow his demands. There’s only so much she can do. She cries for him to stop, but he can’t do that, doesn’t want to do that. She screams and then she stops, abruptly, and he’s done it.)
How it lays out at odd, unusually beautiful angles. How it’s a different experience, every time, for every person.
(She lays at those angles and she’s beautiful, her twisted neck the finale of his night.)