FLOAT

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I leaned my head against the window frame by his bedside and caressed the hardened bubbles made of dried paint on the edge. I sighed and took a well-deserved drag from the blunt he had rolled up for me. He said he was trying to quit, but even I knew that was a joke. The trail of smoke, like a ballet dancer, followed. It lingered for a while as I looked on.

“How do you feel?” I heard him ask. He was playing me a beat he had recently produced. It was nice. The way sunflowers were nice. He was going to be a world-class producer when the time was right.

“I don’t know. Drowning perhaps,” I answered silently in a single breath.

“You’ll float, Orla. You always do,” he said reassuringly. 

I knew that was the reason I fell in love with him in the first place.

 


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