Author's Note: Blame my sociology teacher. She started talking about heroin addicts and the things they do for money. And bam, no notes were taken for the rest of the class, but this...thing came about. It may or may not be continued. We'll see...

The gray skies wept with exhaustion, and steam rose hurriedly from subway grates. The cold was the kind of chill that didn't take long to infest itself in your bones, and took hours to rid yourself of. The park had been abandoned by its young and playful popluation for the day, no parent would let their child out in weather such as this. It was inhabited, however, by those who had a need for something. A need so strong that this weather was not the worst they had faced. On the outskirts of the park, by streetlamps and benches, were scattered clumps of the aching individuals. Those who had their needs fulfilled were leaning lazily against tree trunks or stretched out on park benches, staring euphorically into the rain that didn't seem to be soaking them.

Roger was waiting, though. He hadn't been one of those glassy-eyed people since that afternoon, and it was killing him. He stood uneasily, bouncing on his heels and shifting his weight from foot to foot. He wore torn jeans and a thin, gray t-shirt. The gray of his shirt was just a little lighter than that of the sky. Whatever warmth he held onto was trapped to his body by a worn leather jacket, the zipper having broken months ago, and held tight to himself only by crossed, trembling arms. His detached companions showed no signs of being talented conversationalists, and so they were aware of the others existance, but not of the others voices or opinions. Prospective clients drove by slowly, passing up this endless oppurtunity one more time. Some sped closer to the curb, dousing the sidewalk and the feet of those standing on it with the polluted gutter rain collected on the side of the street.

Roger didn't do this all the time. He only did it when he needed, and he was broke. It hadn't been bad lately, but when April died, he lost more than a girlfriend. He lost half his smack. It was harder now that she was gone. He had to go out more often, and in weather like this.

A dark red (like blood, he briefly thought) sedan slowed to a stop mere feet away from him. The window closest to him lowered mechanically and a curt nod was directed towards him. He cautiously treaded closer to the door, glancing to his left and right nervously. Leaning in to the open window, the older man nodded again before he spun quickly, making sure no one would witness his departure. No one important, at least.

The skies continued to sob as he slid into the vehicle and sunk into the seat, ashamed of what he was about to do. No. Yes, ashamed of what he was about to do, but also of what he had done, what he wasn't going to stop doing.