Smoke Myself Languor

JS lights a joint, walks over, sits down beside her and asks if she would like some. She isn’t sitting, but crouching on the balls of her feet, like she’s trying to touch as little sand as possible. She looks as if a joint, particularly one that someone else had smoked on, would offend her. But JS has one of those smiles that gets away with saying anything.

In an interrogating voice, she says, “Is that pot?”

JS loses his smile. “Uh…”

“Is it just pot, no tobacco or anything else in it?”

The smile comes back. “Oh yeah, all natural my friend.”

“Oh thank fuck, pardon my language.”

“Not a problem, somehow I knew you would need this.”

“I don’t have any because I flew here. I’ve been going crazy. Well more for other reasons, that idiot with the notebook to be specific, but this really helps.” She takes a couple big drags off the joint. “Ugh, I could smoke myself languor right now.”