This was more than excitement. Miles beyond the pre-sniff thrill while cutting lines on a pool hall toilet tank, or the happy flash of a fridge glimmering with beer bottles in a parentless house. This anticipation was charged with a kiddish purity, plus a twang of nervousness. Embarking on the drive down to Michelle’s place, Henry was giddy. Sure, he’d seen and sniffed and drunk and smoked his fair share, but when it came to this—a date—he was a novice, a toddler love drunk on a schoolyard crush. In terms of sex, let alone the most basic rituals of attraction and engagement, he was utterly inexperienced. Anticipation had him in a frenzy. He had to get his shit together. If he didn’t, Michelle was bound to detect just how flagrantly chaste he was the instant she climbed into the truck.

A bouquet of roses sat on the middle seat. Initially he’d lifted the center console to remove the barrier between him and Michelle to optimize drive-time proximity. He’d imagined her fawning over the flowers and, unobstructed, sidling across the seat and into his lap, and this made him a total fucking moron, corny and naive. He slammed the console down to hide the bouquet, which coughed a petal to the floor.