3-
So I come in the next day and I order something different.
Maybe she'll ask why I got something different. "Are you high all the time?" That's something she might ask. "Do you always have the munchies?" She could ask that too. Ask why I did things like that, why I liked to dip French fries in chocolate ice cream, why I smelled like an ashtray all the time.
I think she might ask that.
But she doesn't.
She doesn't ask anything and it's frustrating. I wait and wait and nothing. Not even a fucking glance some days.
And then she does. Two weeks later she sits down at my table and sets her chin in her right hand. "Have you ever died your hair?" She asks.
I stare at my blizzard for a minute before looking up, because honestly, I'm faded. Soooooo fucking faded. But I realize she's talking to me and I do that high thing, the one where I zoom in and focus on one thing, and right now that specific thing is this chick, the one I've been waiting to ask me a question. "Yeah," I say.
"What color?" She says quickly.
I hesitate but find I'm not as embarrassed as I usually am about the topic. "Green." Must be the THC.
A brow quirks. "Green?"
"Yeah," I say.
"I was thinking of dying my hair."
"Don't. Bad idea." For some reason, actual sentences are failing me so bad right now. Like, where the fuck did my mouth go? I dunno. "You'll get tired of it really quick."
"Mmm," She hums quietly, before taking my spoon from my hand and scooping a spoonful of ice cream into her mouth. She sets the utensil back on the table and walks away, and again, seriously, how many times is this chick gonna leave me with a boner?
