And now, look at me.

I lift the joint to my mouth, take a tentative pull.

Nothing happens.

“Iris?” I whisper, poking her arm with my fingers. “Are you asleep?”

“No,” she says, without opening her eyes.

“I smoked it, but nothing happened,” I tell her.

“You need to inhale,” she says.

“Don’t you feel bad that you’re introducing me to a gateway drug?” I ask.

“No.”

This time I inhale, but I think the smoke goes down the wrong way. Down my esophagus instead of my trachea. I cough and splutter, but there’s no water, only wine, so I pick up my glass and take a gulp.

“Atta girl,” says Iris.

I take another pull. A toke, apparently. Then another one. The air above my head swirls with thick, pungent smoke. I look at it; at the designs it makes. There is something faintly beautiful about it.

Which is weird because there is nothing beautiful about smoke. It’s bad. For your lungs, your skin, your teeth. And the environment, of course.

“Let’s not forget about the environment,” I say, and my voice sounds as thick as the smoke. As if my tongue is swollen. I stick out my tongue.

“What about the environment?” Iris says. Her voice has a dreamy quality, which seems sort of appropriate in the circumstances.

“Is my tongue swollen?” I ask. It’s difficult to articulate words with your tongue hanging out of your mouth. And I can’t bring myself to worry as much as I should about the possibility of my tongue being swollen. Even though a swollen tongue could be dangerous. Lethal in fact.

I’m just curious to know whether or not my tongue is swollen.

Iris laughs. “I think it’s working now,” she says. She doesn’t open her eyes, so she can’t see my tongue and tell me if it’s swollen or not. I find myself unable to care as much as I probably should. Instead, I poke Iris. “Do you know what the weird thing is?” I ask.

“Good to know there’s only one weird thing,” says Iris.

“I’m having a lovely time,” I say. “I know I shouldn’t say that.”

I close my eyes and inhale so deeply, I can feel my ribs pushing up and out. I’m like a pro. I’m like someone who has been smoking cannabis all her life. I feel ridiculously pleased with myself. When I open my eyes, Iris is smiling at me. “I’m having a lovely time too,” she says.

Hope is like warmth spreading inside my chest, expanding and filling the hollow. Or maybe it’s just the smoke.

Iris struggles into a sitting position. She reaches for the joint and I hand it to her. She inhales and the end of the cigarette crackles and withers. She shapes her mouth into a circle and exhales, making the most exquisitely perfect circles of smoke that float away from our shadows with such grace and ceremony, it sort of takes my breath away. “Terry?” Now Iris is poking me with her finger and I blink and the world reassembles itself. “Did you hear what I said?”