The sun hung low emanating a soft heat in the afternoon. They lay, legs entwined in the grass, their toes playing their own little game amongst one another. He deeply inhaled the last couple of puffs from a joint they were sharing, suckling it urgently as if it might disappear from his hands altogether. She watched entranced; she loved the shape of his lips as he smoked. They were plump and thick, unlike the lips of most boys. They lay for a few more moments before deciding to get something to eat.

As they walked, they giggled, she loved the impersonations he did of regular people, old men, the junkies in the street, each he did with an unexpected comedic flair which enthralled her. They approached a pub and he dipped his hand into his pocket to retrieve his wallet. His face changed and panic washed over him.

“What? What is it?” She coaxed, knowing the answer couldn’t be good.

“My wallets gone.” He said, panic turning into anger as he continued to raid his pockets intently.

“That’s okay we’ll just go back to where we were in the gardens and see if it’s there.” She attempted to calm him.

“I’ll run ahead just meet me there.” He darted off through the people ahead and she was amazed at the energy he possessed despite being stoned. She walked towards the spot, knowing the wallet would be gone, as she approached him, he looked distraught. She attempted to calm him,

“Hey whatever’s in there we can replace.” She coaxed. “There’s five hundred bucks in there.” He said deadpan.

“Why do you have so much cash?” Concerned for him, this reminded her of an oh too familiar situation.

“I made an earn yesterday, half of that cash is fucking Johnny’s.” She could say nothing in return. She was unaware of the fact he was still dealing. She knew he still enjoyed a big night but this was a completely different kettle of fish. They both went silent and turned to leave. The day would be different to how they had planned. Her mind swam with anxiety for what he was not telling her, and his with schemes to somehow make back what he had lost. At the station they parted ways and she attempted to push down what was welling up inside her.

It was days like these that she remembered after they had parted ways. At first it was a bitterness in her mouth at the sound of his name. Then came a deep missing sensation, an unavoidable sinkhole of nostalgia in her stomach. It was unbearable some days, a comedown unlike any substance, like a long drive home from a trip, knowing happiness is behind you for

the moment, but unsure of when it will come again. It was a feeling of turning on the lights hoping it will bring clarity, but instead the stark brightness revealing something uglier.

...

The room was engulfed in smoke. Music contorted its way through their ears, making their jaws grind with euphoria. They were alone again. The absence of the people that were in the room went unnoticed, the smoke around them acting as a buffer for the emptiness. He bent down to snort the remaining line lying uninspiringly on the cracked plate in front of them. Her face was frozen in a disassociated smile, her head swaying slowly from side to side as the music moved through her. Each were solitary in their own experiences of the drug. His eyes were like a possum’s, darting quickly from one side of the room to the other, unable to settle on an object that would soothe his restlessness. If one were looking in at the two, they might appear mildly insane. Or perhaps as if they were watching a tv show but both were getting opposing reactions to the content.

After hours of quivered rolling of cigarettes, they started to come to. She looked sunken and he looked hungry. Wavering like an unanchored ship in the sea she attempted to stand up to go to bed.

“I can’t sleep yet.” His hand inserting itself into the smoke between them.

“I’m dead. I can’t do anymore of this shit.” She slurred; her eyes drooped with desperation. He bent over to roll another cigarette oblivious to her discomfort.

“You do as much as you want just come up when you’re done.” Her disappointment oozing like venom from a snake’s tooth.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get Johnny to drop off another bag, worse comes to worst I can sell the rest later.” Conviction was his strong point, and he made a second drug delivery sound as reasonable as a supermarket trip. Any time the name Johnny was uttered she knew it was her cue for remaining silent.

She admired and feared his talent for avoiding a comedown. He could chase a feeling until every drop of it was evaporated, she on the other hand could only sit in the discomfort and wait until it washed over her.

She stumbled up the stairs out of his view and dug her nail slowly into the side of her palm. Upstairs she turned the lights off. The music below her creeping under her door, nudging her

with the reminder of his drug fuelled presence below her. In the darkness his solitude was louder to her than ever. She imagined him downstairs, engulfed in some imaginary competition with himself, unaware of her insomnia above him. These thoughts illuminated and crawled around the room and she wondered, would it be nicer if the lights were on?

...

The house was dark, shadows lay across the wood in the kitchen and a sharp line of moonlight illuminated the bright green of the couch in the living room. At first look you would think the space seems undisturbed, but as your eyes grow accustomed to the dark, small upsets in the space become apparent. Smoke snakes menacingly from a recently blown out candle, shoes are strewn violently, one at the foot of the couch, the other resting on the first step of the stairs, as if snagged on the way up. And resting on the table, a silver watch tick, tick, ticks, the sound eerily magnified by the emptiness of the space.

The room holds a musk that will linger for days. It looks like a dark stage waiting for a performance. The lines of the furniture are accentuated by the jagged pieces of light strewn through the window and look how you would imagine them in a dream.

As you walk up the stairs, the darkness within the gaps looks at you with a smugness, teasing you with the thought that a hand could easily reach out, grab your ankle, perhaps even pull off a shoe like the one at the bottom of the stairs. The door at the top of the landing is slightly ajar and as you stand outside, an unsteady breathing leaks into your ear. It is not the breathing that comes from a steady sleep; it is jolted, strained, as if the person producing it is locked in mental hell. If you pushed the door you would see a woman. She is strewn like the shoes on the floor, legs tangled in the sheets, arms flung above her head. Next to her sits a boy. He sits drawing deeply on a cigarette, the ash falling onto his bare chest, eyes locked onto the wall in front of him. The scene is deeply peaceful in a disturbingly sombre way. And if you closed the door, and walked down the stairs back into the darkness, you’d be left wondering if the scene would be nicer if the lights were on?