"The other night I was sitting on a dark porch with a boy from Oklahoma City. The morning was close and it was that time of night that you can smell the sun burning the tail of the horizon, crisp while the crickets sang. We’d been sharing a joint, my first since March or April and I was hoping the high would give me ample reason to curl up and sleep, but it had done the opposite. I kept talking to keep him outside long enough for me to get drowsy. Midsentence, he scooted across the wood, closer to me. His hand rested in an awkward position next to mine on the porch, not quite touching me, but obviously reaching. He was wearing a hat and I couldn’t see his eyes. I kept talking, pretending to be oblivious. The sound of my voice carried. I could hear it echo at me from the street. Under the influence, I became highly fascinated with the way it lilted and cracked. The smoking is killing me, but it makes me sound pretty.
His pinky finger brushed against mine and I looked down and then back up to him. Under the hood of his hat, I could see him blushing.
He pulled back, oblivious to my disinterest, or ignoring it. He smiled. “You tell really amazing stories.”
I laughed and then stopped long enough to catch it echoing down the street. “Is that why you like me?” ...."
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