It was one thirty in the morning on a Thursday when I found myself a witness to a flaw in physics, as Sarah was sitting on top of my bed in my bedroom, and I knew full well that those two properties of this universe could not take up the same space. She rested her back against the headboard with her knees up to her chest. Her coat was on the chair in the corner, and she looked comfortable. Which made one of us.
She intimidated me. She was barely in her twenties and had obtained her degree, while I stuck with role that required minimal responsibility, and I just turned thirty. She was also cooler than me, which is strange, because I understand the juvenile senselessness in that way of thinking, but that was because I always selfishly thought I was smarter and more cultured than everybody else. Then, I met her, and I now feel like I'm living in junior high.
I was leaning over the side of the bed, looking for a large wooden box that seemed to keep misplacing itself after each use. Shame wept over me as I groaned to reach for the stash, finally wrapping my fingers around a corner. I sat beside her and revealed the contents inside.
So, we work together. Earlier tonight, we ended up in conversation for the first time, and I let slip that I smoke ganja, and suddenly, she got really interested. Instinct led me to believe she was trapping me into getting fired, so I was reluctant to share more details. Her physicality, however, seemed to be enough of an insistence that I had no problem changing my mind moments later, where I divulged my regular bake schedule. She suggested we should hang after work. I laughed.
I snorted.
When it became clear a minute later that she was serious, I apologized, admitting my obvious confusion at her interest to hang, even if it was just to smoke weed. She simply stated her curiosity has overwhelmed her the last few months, and I found I could relate to that. I felt the same sudden desire to know what it was like to live life as a stoner.
"How do you want to smoke?" I asked.
"A joint."
"Are you sure? A bong might be less harsh."
"I want to try and roll it."
I picked a bag of Kush and placed a few nugs into the grinder. After a few cycles, I fumbled through the rest of my stash gadgets before finding a pack of rolling papers. I placed the box lid upside down on her lap, emptying the grinder in the center.
I live my life by details, because the more I remember, the better I know what impact that moment will have on my life. This particular night had many. The first was the moment our skin first made contact when the skin of my fingers met the softer skin of her thumb when handing her the papers.
"Thanks", she said, smiling.
I nodded, staring at her. If the nanosecond of muscle movement in her neck hadn't clued me in to turn away my gaze, she would have found my stare to be creepy and unromantic. But, I couldn't help it. I was astounded this beautiful person was beginning a memory with me. She evenly sprinkled the weed atop the folded receptacle, generously approximating the amount we'll consume. Without changing her focus, she asks, "Wanna turn on some music?"
"Uh... yeah, sure."
Fuck.
This could be scary. The music I decide to play may either placate her, or repel her to leave. I couldn't play the music I normally listen to. Aborted, Cannibal Corpse, Bruno Mars, I mean... these just aren't the bands that will impress other women.
I tried thinking outside of the box, and eventually settled on a Ben Folds Five vinyl. I set the needle down and she gave me a smirk.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing. I like Ben Folds."
"Why the smirk?"
"This is what you listen to?"
"I listen to this."
"All the time?"
"Well," I paused, "not all the time."
"You don't need to impress me," she stated bluntly. "I don't want you to play me what you think I want to hear. It's your house. Play your music."
"I don't think you want to listen to my music."
Her eyes burned straight into mine as she pulled the joint up to her lips and gently licked the strip of glue on the paper, never turning her stare away. I bowed my head in defeat and thumbed through my phone. I played what I listened to last, a technical death metal song.
It played for a while, the guitars shredding through the speakers, while the pulse of the drums traveled through the walls and the floor. She smiled.
"I like it," she said. "Not my go-to style of music, but it has musicianship."
I couldn't think of anything to say. Nothing to contribute, nothing to praise... nothing to acknowledge. Eventually, I nodded. The way she rolled her eyes didn't feel condescending, but rather forgiving. She patted the space next to her.
"Sit down."
As I fell beside her, she turned her body towards me and brought the joint to my lips. Briefly, I looked at her for what I guess was permission, eventually accepting it with my mouth. I grabbed a lighter from my pocket and lit the end, where the white burst into an orange plasma. Immediately, the smoke tightened my chest, and I could feel a searing pressure against my throat. I couldn't control the small droplets of spit that expelled when I coughed out what I hit. I took one more puff, smaller, then quickly sucked the air in. Holding my breath, I handed it to her.
Her lips pouted around the joint, accentuating a perverse thought racing through my mind. She hit it quickly, taking to quick tokes, than coughed as well, albeit, more reserved. When she got the last of the smoker out of her, she smiled at me, handing me back the weed.
