I sat on his bed, legs dangling off the side. My heels hit the comforter with soft thuds and a gentle puff of air. Little white tufts fell from my pants, and soon his black blankets were mottled with fine, discarded crystals and pilling cotton. 

    “Stop that.” He said from the floor, splayed out on the carpet in the form of a star. The order was deep and demanding, but his expression was loving. He was frowning, yes, but that was because his hair was in his eyes. Dark strands curled to mingle with his eyelashes and irritate his waterlines. 

    My movements ceased, and I was forced to confront the clicking of the ceiling fan. Its chain dangled above him, forming a gracious, hypnotizing circle. 

    “Why are you even here?” He asked. He did not want me walking home late at night. 

    “You asked me to come. To watch,” I prompted.

    “Oh.” He seemed…bothered.

    “Do you want me to turn off the fan? Is it too loud?” 

    “No. Just be quiet and read your book.” 

    “Okay,” I smiled, blushing. He knew me so well. 

    I did not touch my book, no. Instead I looked at the boy on the carpet. He was less than ten years older than me. He was cool, and I thought he was cool because he had his own apartment on the cheaper side of town. But I did not love him for his house or the comfortable mattress we would sleep on when he found ecstasy. That was when he was the most affectionate. He would say sweet, sweet things as he traced shapes on my naked back with gentle fingers. Ecstasy was my favorite. 

    He was beautiful that day, too. It was when I got to explore all sides of him. He was every emotion packed into one, thin-skinned vessel. 

    The fan’s draft caused his shirt to flutter violently. The sensation must have bothered him, for he peeled off the shirt and threw it at his bed. He missed. He accidentally almost hit me, but it caught the corner of my book before dropping to my thighs. I folded the warm, stiff shirt. It was somewhat damp, and I thought he wore it the day before because it smelled of bonfire and tobacco. 

    He sat up, his palms flat on the carpet as he struggled to center himself. 

    “Can I borrow your license?” He asked politely, pulling his phone from the tightness of his pocket. 

    “Yes.” 

    He stood, taking a few long strides before he snatched the ID from my fingers. 

    “Thanks, baby.” He kissed my forehead, his lips warm and blistered. Scarred, for he wrapped them around a small glass pipe one too many times. 

    I beamed at the attention, sitting straight and making room for him on the mottled comforter. 

    He set his phone on my thigh for a second, face up. His left hand searched a crowded drawer, pulling out a plastic baggie. A baggie he emptied out on his phone, taking my license to crush its contents into fine, white crystals. I liked the color white. It reminded me of weddings. 

    He took a dollar bill from the table, rolling it up into a green, hollowed cylinder. Green was his favorite color. I wondered if he knew my favorite color. 

    Afterward, his nose dripped red. There was one specific drop–it fell gracefully to my license, splattering over my picture to hide my face. 

    He moaned deliciously, tilting his head back and inhaling with force and need. 

    I wish he loved me that much. I wish he needed me, too. 

    “Can I try it?” 

    “No,” he said quickly. He did one more line off the phone’s screen, but that was all. He unrolled the bloody dollar bill and shoved it in my front pocket. His thumb grazed my bare hip; I blushed. 

    I asked him that question every time I went to his house on the cheaper side of town. I never asked him why I could not try it. But even if I did ask, I doubt he would have given me an answer. 

    To me, it was alright that he smoked cigarettes. In all, he did not smoke much, and if he did, he spent time with me outside. We enjoyed the sun, and he tanned a little bit. It was alright that, yes, he would heat the bottom of a spoon with a lighter every friday. But it reminded me of late-night parties crowded around a smoldering fire. Each click of the lighter triggered memories of failed attempts at lighting logs and twigs within the safety of a firepit. To me, it was okay that he did bad things. If they were really, truly bad, then no one would do them. 

    To me, it was good that he had a job. He stored sealed bags beneath our comfortable, mottled bed. Filled with nuggets of green, foul smelling cannabis and tiny crystals resembling the diamonds in an engagement ring.  Through his job, he made money to afford the apartment on the cheaper side of town. 

    Not many agreed with me, but that was alright. Because I had him. And he was not bad. 

    He looked at me. His pupils were blown wide with stimulants–and hopefully, love and attraction. There was no longer a pleasant, light blue in his irises. Blood dripped from the cuts inside his nose, hurdling over the obstacle of his upper lip and painting his smolder red. 

    I kissed him again. The red tasted like hunger and lust. Like spit and cocaine and–numb. 

That was the first time I got to try it.