he is twenty one and he wraps it up like an old pro. i am turned on by this act, by his efficiency. i am nervous and i don’t care. he blows fresh smoke into my mouth and i inhale; a crude, yet pretty, ghost kiss. i don’t feel anything.
we are no longer at the rock quarries on the picnic table. we are sitting on a couch that is too soft and he is showing me how to use a bong. i don’t like the word or the look of it but the fumes sneak inside my brain and suddenly everything is muted, like cotton has been stuffed inside my head. i feel like a doll.
he rolls three more, one right after the other. we smoke them and now i have learned to inhale the inhale, all the way to my lungs. sometimes it hurts and burns up my throat. i cough but the coughing feels good. i am starving.
the pizza comes when i am laying with cameron on the couch, limbs tangled with each other. they lay the box on my belly and he opens it up and takes out a few slices and i am giggling like mad because…