Thirty Eight

“Are you gonna explain to me why we’re in your car smoking weed at around 8 pm or we’re still gonna sit back and enjoy the smell of weed?” I ask, passing the joint to Monique who takes it and puts it in her mouth, taking long drags as she throws her head back and purrs the smoke through her nose and mouth.

I don’t smoke, nor does Monique but that doesn’t mean I can’t handle a few smoke down my lungs. I’ve had a taste of weed and cigarettes in the past but I didn’t make a habit of it. Since Monique and I became friends, I’ve only seen her smoke thrice and during those times, she always made me smoke with her because she needed someone. Monique stress-smokes sometimes and right now as we sit in the front seat of her car with SZA blasting from her stereo in a low volume, I have a feeling something has happened.

Is it home? Monique barely talks about her family. The only thing I know about her family is that they live in New Jersey. Her dad’s not in the picture. He got his best friend’s 2