"Baby, I'm home."
"I'm in the kitchen."
He throws his jacket and laptop bag on the couch. "You pick up that teen? I need to get high."
"You know it. Stuff's in the stash next to the hash. Bubble's on the coffee table. It's a bit floral, but not bug-spray."
He casually fidgets through his pockets for a pick. She always prefers butane, but he's convinced a Bic wielded correctly makes the dope last longer.
"What's it like? Dick-in-the-dirt? We gonna be fucking for hours?"
"Maybe for a bit. Kind of a Harriet the Spy high, for me. Try it. You might want to do some blogging on media analysis, or let off some indignant steam for the way they're always doing that sweet gay kid over in California..."
He vaporizes a few hits, then kicks back...