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we are laid, prose, on the floor of the front room. me, white flesh glowing in sharp strips, one arm behind my head, moonlight slicing through the blinds. his head is tipped back as he tokes, smoke hanging in a milky cloud above the lips before being gulped down into wet lungs. something calm, by nina simone, is going in my ears.
we're smoking shotties. a little plug of baccy goes in the pipe, down into clean water in a dr pepper bottle. i tip some ground dry shreds into a bowl, push them into a ball between my fingertips, pop it in the pipe. letting out a big breath and holding the clipper to the hole, sucking in the smoke through bubbles of water, till the plug pops down and clouds the liquid. i let out a big lungful while propped up on the elbows. he laughs, yous look like a steam train, he says. toot toot.
i pack one for him and up he comes, lifting his enormous skinny torso into the light, his chest huge, wide, pearly pink and tan round the collarbones. the twisted cables of his arms pull tight as he flicks the lighter; he tips forward for a gulp of hot smoke as the shottie pops and looks pained, but holds in the smoke till he is laid again, and lets it rise from his throat in its own time,slow.