Easy to dismiss this New Yorker story - but don't

Easy maybe too easy to dismiss Julianne Pachico's story in current New Yorker, Honey Bunny, as another tale of youth and Brooklyn and cocaine, a dissolute romp among some people with many privileges who can think of nothing but the next fix - but there's more here than that. The story is jarring from the outset - girl meets guy in dance bar, says she has "treats" in her purse, and then we jump ahead a few hours and they're riding together on the subway and surprisingly the girl gets off end of relationship - which shows us suddenly that the only relationship, even in a fling or pickup, is about the drugs, not sex and certainly not love or companionship. Story follow the first through several encounters w her drug dealer - and this is where Pachico shows some skill in some of her influences: she's apparently a Colombian-born writer though living in England and working in English (and story set in NY) - a joke at the outset of the story is when the guy says: Columbia University?, and she says, "sure" - we don't read anything else of the dialogue - he must have asked, where you from, and she says, Colombia. Anyway, the story involves a series of rx purchases that are polluted with various items in packet, which girl painfully and rather disgustingly snorts: a dried leaf, an insect wing, up to increasingly odd objects like a small drumstick - this is a touch of the magic realism native to Colombia (and maybe to Columbia), putting us on edge and giving this story a touch of comedy as well. As the story moves along, she uses Google earth to spy on some of her childhood haunts, stirring memory and desire - we see the great wealth she lived among (acquired by who knows what means) and her current sorrow and dependence, and at the end she makes a gesture toward getting out of her fix and moving on with her life. So there's a lot of dimension to this story - a story of a life in jeopardy and of a struggle for sanity and wholeness, with the ending left open.