Night Out After Poker (NOIR) VI

Your hand's in your jacket pocket fingering the knotted-up plastic baggie. Pulse racing a bit. An eighth of an ounce. Twenty-five-ish lines. Way too fucking much, but you're not exactly about to take it with you on the flight back home. What happens in Vegas stays--

You drop the coke on the bed in the space where your and her knees meet. Her fingers are still locked with yours. About ten seconds have passed, it feels like more. Your hands are sweating. So are hers. She looks down. You look at her.

Her teeth show gently above her lower lip. Her face wears excitement. Loudly. The weight of the bed shifts and she's pressed into you in an instant. Your free hand is on her hip supporting her. Funny how we're so evolutionary good at these strange acts of balance.

Her face is ten inches from yours. She presses your interlocked hands deep into the mattress, pinning your wrist awkwardly, and forcing you to fall softly backwards. Her weight presses into you as you uncross your legs and have no option but to hold them around her. Again, there's a brief pause. Her face is ten inches from yours.

Not anymore.

She still tastes of strawberries. Re-applied the lip gloss when she was in the bathroom? The little things that girls do. Definitely. Her lips are sticky with the gloss. Not a bad thing. Just sticky.

You kiss. She kisses your lips. You kiss hers. Her two front teeth briefly click yours. You both laugh and keep going. You roll her over so you're on top. It's immediately amusing that you're still fully clothed and she's, well, not so much. You lean in again. Beeping. You're pressed into her, your fingers still locked, your other hand grazing her very exposed ribcage. Her skin's still cool to the touch. Beeping. You realize your whole weight is now pinning her wrist painfully into the mattress.

You back off. "Sorry." So much for being evolutionary good.

Her face is inexpressive. Beeping. Or just hard to read. The fucking alarm clock won't shut the fuck up. You hop off her and stare at the clock. The beeping continues.

"Um, how?" She shuts it off without you finishing the question or you noticing she got up. This won't do.

She picks up the bag from the bed and tosses it to you.

"I can't use too much or I can't come."

Anhedonia? Maybe nothing that severe. Girls do seem to always take forever to come when using.

"Got any cigarettes?" Her eyes let you know that she understands where you're going with this.

"My friends have some lying around here somewhere." She heads into the jungle of shopping bags. She, however, cuts through them with ease. The insignificant amount of daylight fighting its way past the curtains is really not enough to enable you to help much in finding anything. You sit back on the bed and frustratingly try to untie the bag.

"Your friends, huh?"

"Shut up." She turns around to give you a well-deserved scowl. Meanwhile, you're doing your best to suppress your arousal from watching her bend over repeatedly as she looks through things. My dog is dead, my dog is dead.

"Don't get mad. I like a girl who smokes."

"Flattered." Three seconds later. "Found 'em!" She's the one too excited.

She tosses the pack to you. Camel Filters, soft pack, half the pack remains. "They're filtered."

"Yeah. So?"

You give her a polite are-you-retarded look. She recognizes the expression. "It's fine even if they're filtered, it passes right through."

Once again with the look.

"I'm serious!" She laughs.

"Have you used unfiltereds before?"

"No, but we can go get some. If you want."

Going to buy cigarettes would entail her getting dressed. Putting on clothes. Not the goal.

"Nah, fuck, my friend is great at making these work." You frustrating pick at the filter unsuccessfully on one of the cigarettes.

"The one at the club?"

"Jeah."

"Not a surprise." She grins.

"What does that mean? You have a knife?"

She gives you the look.

You squint and shake your head with exasperation. New idea. "You have nail scissors?"

"Yeah." She doesn't budge.

"Can you get them?"

She sighs and plods off to the bathroom. You check the clock. 7:54. Still lots of time.

She returns with the scissors. You score the filter, and use the scissors to gently pull some fibers out of the filter. You repeat on another cigarette. She watches clearly entertained. You grin at your success.

She golf-claps.

You put the two cigarettes into the opening of the bag and carefully spill a moderate amount of coke into each. You put your finger over the ends and gently tap them against the book on the bedside table. The goal is to mix the cocaine and tobacco reasonably well to avoid burning the coke off immediately when you light them up. You're content.

"Lighter?"

"Nope. Better." She strikes a match. You hold both cigarettes into the flame. She holds the match carelessly, straight up and down, her thumb millimeters from the flame. You douse the match with your thumb and forefinger immediately as the cigarettes light. No time to enjoy the smell of the match, too bad.

"Oh, how Lawrence."

"As in Arabia?"

"Get out!" She punches your arm flirtatiously. "I used to watch that movie all the time with my dad. He did the same thing with matches."

"He was the most --"

In unison, "Extraordinary man I ever knew." You both laugh.

You tell her, "I love that movie. Don't know why. Well aside from it's awesome."

The cigarettes are about to go out. You both notice and you quickly pass her one and you each do your best to keep them alive. They survive.

She sits down on the bed and you join her. You sit side by side, backs up against the headboard, propped up against one another. You smoke.

She's the first to realize an ashtray is needed. She doesn't have to say anything for you to realize it too. You look around the room for something while she tries to balance the ash of her cigarette above her cupped hand. She laughs.

"Sorry, Teddy Grahams." You empty the remaining bears onto the cover of The Phantom TollBooth and set the cup between the two of you.

You smoke.

She grips your arm and leans her head against your shoulder. You clasp her free hand and look down at her face. She returns the affection by blowing smoke into yours. You laugh and cough and return the favor. She doesn't even flinch though her eyes water.

"You're pretty tough, huh?"

There's hesitation. "Duh." She says it jokingly. But she squeezes your hand. You're thinking once again about the scars. And you're starting to feel the cigarette.