Seeds

"It's got a seed in it," Mimi warned.

"Eh. Doesn't bother me any," I replied, judging the flickability of the cherry burning at the end of what had to be one of the most superb blunts I'd ever smoked.

I thumbed the end and sent a few gray specks flying into the ashtray. "What is this shit anyway?" I asked, pulling in the smoke as though my life depended on it.

"Well, Miss Iron-Lungs," she began, eyeing the treat like she didn't just get a hit, "I'm not quite one hundred percent what it's called, but Dude said it's some loud stuff. Like, loud."

Her eyes, round from the inflection of her statement, squinched into downturned crescents when I passed over the tweed stick. She flashed her smiley piercing before taking one toke, and then another.

She stretched it back to me, and while I smoked I gazed around our studio. We were artists who met in high school and had stayed close ever since. We got through our first year of art school together before unanimously deciding that we could wait to spend thousands upon thousands of dollars for a piece of paper. Her and I both agreed that experience is the best teacher, so we created a space of our own for life to be our muse.