I sit on the old stained blue and white checkered couch in the Italian boys’s living room. Virginia sits next to me with her back against one of its arms smoking a cigarette, she extends her legs onto my lap. Her short dark hair frames her face and as she gestures and talks, ash from her cigarette lands into her lap and the seat of the couch. It's hot. Its always so hot here in August. And still. No wind at all. Like the entire city took a deep inhalation in July and never bothered to exhale. The house plants are crispy brown and the the dirt from the pots spill onto the carpet surrounding them...covering the walls with chunks of drying earth and dust where they were knocked over and righted but the contents were never replaced.
The entire room is dusty and in the rare corner where sun is permitted to shine you can see discarded paper clips, candy wrappers and clumps of white fur from Bobbys cat.
Outside its that twilight hour and we haven’t turned the lights on yet, so the overall effect of the room is more romantic than macabre in the dim light.
I'm perched on the very edge of the couch trying to touch as little of myself onto its surface in my backless yellow sun dress. Beads of sweat form at the nape of my platinum blonde ponytail and begin to drip drip drip down my naked spine one vertebra at a time. My black mary Janes are nestled on the purple shag carpet in front of me where the coffee table sits. The glass coffee table is covered in tiny particles of weed, strips of rolling paper and small rolled up pieces of cardboard filters. Bobby is across from me hunched over the table on the yellow and red plaid couch. He’s wearing his long sleeve flannel shirt and his long brown hair hangs limp and stringy around his face. Held tight in both hands and working fast is his red weed grinder with the sex wax sticker on it. On the glass table in front of him lie the perfect filter and rolling paper combo designed to create a blunt worthy of the gods. On either side of him sit his two nameless and comatose friends..casualties of the first round of Bobby’s craftsmanship. Im realizing that this “epic party” Virginia invited me to is just a way for her to not have to come here to get high alone. Just then the doorbell rings and team plaid couch perks up. The coke is here. We need to leave.
The entire room is dusty and in the rare corner where sun is permitted to shine you can see discarded paper clips, candy wrappers and clumps of white fur from Bobbys cat.
Outside its that twilight hour and we haven’t turned the lights on yet, so the overall effect of the room is more romantic than macabre in the dim light.
I'm perched on the very edge of the couch trying to touch as little of myself onto its surface in my backless yellow sun dress. Beads of sweat form at the nape of my platinum blonde ponytail and begin to drip drip drip down my naked spine one vertebra at a time. My black mary Janes are nestled on the purple shag carpet in front of me where the coffee table sits. The glass coffee table is covered in tiny particles of weed, strips of rolling paper and small rolled up pieces of cardboard filters. Bobby is across from me hunched over the table on the yellow and red plaid couch. He’s wearing his long sleeve flannel shirt and his long brown hair hangs limp and stringy around his face. Held tight in both hands and working fast is his red weed grinder with the sex wax sticker on it. On the glass table in front of him lie the perfect filter and rolling paper combo designed to create a blunt worthy of the gods. On either side of him sit his two nameless and comatose friends..casualties of the first round of Bobby’s craftsmanship. Im realizing that this “epic party” Virginia invited me to is just a way for her to not have to come here to get high alone. Just then the doorbell rings and team plaid couch perks up. The coke is here. We need to leave.
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