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He pulls out rolling papers and prepares to roll a joint.
"I feel like relaxing. I want you completely relaxed as well."
“When did you become a pot smoker?”
“Oh, since about when it was invented. Soldiers do a lot of drugs. Helps get you through the long stretches of total boredom and brief but intense moments of utter fear.”
“Aren’t you afraid of becoming addicted?”
“Can’t,” he says. “Body heals of every insult. Even drugs.”
He pulls me over to him, across his lap, so that I'm sitting to the side with my legs over his lap rather than straddling him. He keeps working on the joint, rolling it together, twisting the ends. He picks up a lighter and lights it, takes a puff and then offers it to me.
I wave it away.
"No, I don't think so. Unlike you, I don’t heal.”
“You could,” he says, his voice playful. “All you have to do is drink my blood…”
“Not a chance, " I say, my arms crossed. He smiles.
"You loved it.”
"It's a drug. That's all. I couldn't help but—"
"Quit lying to yourself," he says and turns my face to his. "You loved the idea as well."
I don’t say anything. What can I do? I can’t deny it – he knows my thoughts.
“Now smoke this. It’s an order.”
I shake my head.
“Luke was right when he said you'd be difficult to control. Eve," he says. "Obedience…"
"Do we have to tonight?"
"Yes." He holds it in front of my face. "This is very mild stuff and I rolled it pretty thin, so don't worry. You're not going to freak out or anything."
He lights the joint and holds it out to me. I relent and take a puff, sucking in the smoke, holding it in my lungs as long as I can before coughing it out.
“There are so many things you want to do and try that you’re afraid to admit to yourself. You don’t have to be afraid with me. For example, you want to get stoned and let yourself go. I aim to please.”
He takes it back and does a small hit, and then quickly hands it back to me. I do another hit, coughing even more this time, tears in the corners of my eyes. He hands the joint back to me after a tiny puff. I comply and take in another lungful of smoke.
"You're not inhaling," I observe when he lets the smoke curl out of his mouth.
"Nonsense. What do you know about smoking pot anyway?" He takes another tiny hit and hands it back to me. "Besides," he says, the smoke coming out of his mouth without inhaling, "when you're experienced like me, you don't need as much to get high."
Somehow, I don't believe it.
"Liar." I take another hit, the smoke not bothering me nearly as much as it first did. "You just want me stoned and you sober so you can take advantage of me."
"Am I that transparent?" he says, that devilish grin on his face. Soon, the joint's just a tiny smoldering stub. I hand it back to him and he clips the end and then sucks.
"Here," he says, blowing the smoke out before inhaling. "Finish this off."
I giggle. "You're not inhaling."
