I had taken my boyfriend home. He was sick. But at least he made it to the club. He remembers the good bits – getting pissed with old friends at home, me showing him round, dancing, kissing on the dance floor.

I remember him on the pavement “Just fuck off”, people helped us to bundle him into a taxi. Vomit. Bed.

I was still awake, only 3am and I’d not seen any of my friends. Wasted. I wanted to go back, ate some cold food and got on my bike. Anger/sadness coursing through me, reaching an outlet.

I did find them. Fucked but definitely my friends. Offered me drugs, I’m not interested. Tequila yes.

My fluffy old ex from so long ago I can’t stop stroking him. They are high on MDMA and talk affectionately.

Dancing to the old tunes, between the lazers. Old friends around this is what I came for.

Getting a round of shots with 2 of the core I say I don’t miss the drugs, but I miss jacking up. Do either of them still do it? No. They remember it well.

Later I fear planting a seed. We’re getting older, no need to push the limits. And I think about it. The rush was addictive, seductive; the process ritualistic. What I miss is not the high though really – I am drug free and happy with other ways now. It was how we bonded like a family. Literally making our bloods visible briefly, repeatedly. Sharing something vulnerable about us and our solution. Mental anarchy in a basement. Never make friends like that again, so I really want to keep hold of these, but now I think to introduce new activities to share. Something with an element of danger or a dinner party.