Simon and I sit in his room.
Hendrix plays, the record player crackling in the corner. Simon lies on his bed, shirt off, reading a magazine.
“Smoke?” he says.
He packs the bong while I light a Lucky. I draw aimlessly in my notebook, try to sketch him, but it’s rough, it doesn’t look like him, so I stop.
He passes the bong without looking at me.
There’s a knock at the door, I take a hit while he answers it; Kat and Amy come up the stairs.
“Guys, guess how many records I bought today,” Kat says.
“Seventeen,” Amy says. “She bought seventeen records.”
“Velvet Underground,” Kat squeals. “So worth it.”
The slow start of the B-side creeps into the room, and I pass Amy the bong.
She takes off her glasses to hit the bowl, brushes her hair back past her ear. She smiles at me. I look for something in her eyes, maybe a sign of recognition that we’ve lived this moment before.
I can’t find it and watch as she hands the piece to Simon; he breathes in, the cylinder of white smoke rushes into his lungs, a voluminous exhale follows.
He closes his eyes, doesn’t open them for a while.
“And she didn’t even notice,” Amy says, finishing a story.
Kat mumbles something, checks her cell. Her eyes light up, she shows me the text:
“yeah, come over at 11”
She giggles. “Arthur said we can pick up tonight.”
“What?” Simon says, eyes still closed. “I just texted him and he told me to wait until tomorrow.”
“Tits rule,” she says, and giggles again.
"I'll tell ya, things aren't quite the same,” Lou says over the sounds of our chatter.
I keep my eyes on Amy's face, expecting it to change; but it doesn’t. It doesn’t when she looks back at me, and it doesn’t when she lights her cigarette, and it doesn’t when she tucks the folds of her dress underneath her, and it doesn’t when I pour her a glass of wine, and it doesn’t when she places her hand in the crook of my arm, and it doesn’t when I kiss her, and it doesn’t when she says goodbye and leaves.