“Have you asked her out yet?” I lit a cigarette and opened my second origami-folded gram. It was past midnight and the rest of Roger’s customers had departed. We sat next to each other, cross-legged on the floor where our noses could reach the surface of the coffee table.

“I tried,” he said with a hangdog expression on his face.

I offered Roger a smoke, but he waved the pack away. “So? What did you say?”

“I said, ‘Debby you wanna grab dinner sometime?’”

“Way too vague.” I hit Roger on the arm.

Roger shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, she’s never going out with a schlub like me.”

“Stop that!” I admonished. It was true—Roger was kind of a schlub. But that was mostly because of the way he carried himself with poor posture due to low self-esteem. Objectively, he was almost handsome with thick, dark hair, and a decent body. His complexion was pale for a Southern Californian, but that was because he slept days and worked nights. If he stood up straight and lost the glasses, maybe hit the beach once a week, he’d do all right.

“Hey, I’m almost down to the last gram. Have any more?” I started to feel panicky whenever my stash got low.

“Nope. Sold the rest to Kristi and my supplier’s not back ‘til tomorrow.”

“Wait who?” I leaned back and uncrossed my legs. I had on sweatpants and a Circle of Life T-shirt. Lately, I couldn’t seem to make an effort. I wasn’t sure when I’d last had a shower.

The couch was covered in plaid fabric, not unlike my rented furniture at the Oakwood. Under the coffee table lay a homey-looking green and blue braided rug I guessed to have come from Roger’s mother who lived nearby and dropped by once a week with groceries.

“Gretchen, my supplier? She’s the man.”

“No. Who’s Kristi?”

“The blonde who was here earlier? Short, shorts, pink halter top.”

“The chick hanging all over you?” I tapped out some of my coke on the mirror, put out my cigarette, and lit another. “Why don’t you ask her out?”

“I’m not attracted to her,” Roger said.

“Seriously? She’s like a Baywatch babe. I think she was the stand-in for Pamela Anderson.”

“Not my type, what can I say?”

“What is your type?” I snorted, coughed, and held the straw out to Roger.

“Sexy and smart.” Roger scraped some coke out of his envelope onto the mirror. He chopped up a few lines and snorted them before motioning to me.

“Why are you hanging out with me then? I barely graduated high school.” I laughed and took the straw.

“Well, for one thing, you pay upfront.” He chuckled.

“Very funny.”

“And you’re savvy.”

“Savvy. Huh. Like clever? Never thought of myself that way. I like it though. Good word. You have an excellent vocabulary, Roger.”