So we're in a car and we talk about our lives. I tell him about my life. He tells me about his life. Comments are passed, and underneath a few bad jokes - advice also, I think.

So then later when we're watching School of Rock and I've been bullied into a joint and I'm quite stoned, I wonder if this would feel less so if that had been a little more. You know, like dripping honey on toast and a little boy running, through very green grass that brushes his knees, towards a swing that sways slowly, invitingly, as if the very breeze is being caressed in its lap.

We fell asleep then and the next morning, he looks at me and asks whether we should bond.

"Do you have anything to say?"

"No. Do you?"

"Nah. I said everything I wanted to last night."

"Me too."

"Cool." And we did our own thing.

The window is open. White curtains and little pieces of sunlight dancing their way in. The fan's moving slowly and it seems like the breeze coming in is being pushed around, synchronised swimming, sharp against the blades.

Fuck I'm stoned.


Anonymous said...

being stoned evidently doesn't affect your writing.

Anoorag said...

Hello. Salvador Dali? No Pablo Picasso?

trish. said...

Not today.