Another inhale and it settled in her lungs, tingles running down her arms. She loved this cloudy feeling of languid existence. The pungent smell of weed dissipating in the air, as the kitchen timer goes off.
“Let High Kitchen begin.” Franklin spun away from the oven and waved the spatula in the air like a composer leading an orchestra.
Her smile formed lazily, sitting on her face with familiarity. She’d only been coming to Franklin’s apartment since last semester but the couch already carried a well-worn press of her body. The way he winked at her over the meal sparked warmth at the base of her spine, even when they were both sober. It wasn’t the only reason she kept coming back but it was one of them.
Most people find the “munchies” aspect of this particular intoxicant annoying but Franklin embraced it. In fact, he chased it. Loved the need to mix hunger with lowered-inhibition creativity. Or maybe it’s just that the high… highlights. Two ingredients that seem incompatible are suddenly mixed in a new light.
It wasn’t hard for her to get off the couch with Franklin. Especially when he reached a hand out to help her, but missed, intentionally, to run it through her hair first -the pulled strands causing ripples of pleasure down the back of her head to settle deliciously in her neck- before helping her off the couch.
In the kitchen is a concoction. A casserole of leftovers and condiments. Despite its sordid beginnings, it smelled good. So did Franklin, when he stood this close.
“Care to taste?” He asked.
She automatically read innuendo into the question and he noticed her blush. It turned his grin into something smaller, shy yet inviting.
She loved coming over here. She rubbed his shoulders, scrapped her nails across the soft skin of his neck. This cloudy feeling of languid existence, she pressed in closer to him and embraced it.