“Yes. Also, I find you very ‘eyesome,’ Jackie. How’s that for a word?”

“I hope it’s a compliment.”

“It means pleasing to look at.”

I snorted up the lines and immediately fixed another one. I tapped out another cigarette. Roger leaned over and lit it for me.

A Jim Morrison song came on the radio and suddenly, we were caught up in reciting his lyrics, which I had never thought of as being poetry. Tonight, they felt profound.

Roger went into his bedroom and emerged with a large coffee table-sized book with Morrison on the cover. “Every single lyric Jim Morrison ever wrote!” He swooped down and sat on the couch. I bounced up next to him.

“Oh my God, this is sooo amazing!” I exclaimed, turning the pages. “How have I never seen this before?” I was suddenly filled with admiration for Roger and Jim Morrison. They seemed like the same person, and I had the privilege to know them both.

“A funeral pyre…”

“Like a bonfire”

“Right, but it could also be…”

Peter was a distant memory. I melted into this moment, connecting with Roger as we analyzed the meanings behind “Light my Fire,” which was way much more interesting than it appeared on the surface. Oh, man! I took a huge drag from my Marlboro. And smoking was so great! I loved smoking!

“You should smoke, Roger. It is so amazing.”

“I can’t. I have asthma.”

“Really? How could I not have known that about you?”

That began a long conversation about Roger’s early years, leading to his Bar Mitzvah—fascinating stuff to my coke-fueled brain.

I took a long drag off my cigarette and exhaled. “I worry about you getting busted, Roger.” Then I picked the razor blade from the mirror and scraped a couple of lines off the pile. Chop, chop, chop.

“Hey, don’t give it a thought.” He leaned into me. We were shoulder to shoulder now on the couch, our knees touching.

I kicked off my sandals and raked my toes over the ridges in the braided rug. “I mean you’re, what, a semester away from getting a degree?” I took another drag of my cigarette then pour, scrape, chop, chop, chop, snort.

“Two semesters. Nah, I don’t think about it. I mean I only deal to my close friends.” Scrape, chop. Chop, chop. “Besides, I’m in it for another six months. No, seven months ‘cause of spring break, and then I have to fly to Jersey for my cousin’s wedding.” Scrape, scrape. “My dad’s got a few friends he’s gonna introduce me to so…” Snort, snort… “I might intern at Druckman, Kotler, and Stein next summer if it pans out.”

SCRAPE. Roger drew out two lines the length of the table, using the entire pile. “One for each of us.” He handed me the straw.