She slipped into the bathroom quietly and locked the door behind her. The room was small, unused, the tiles slightly dusty from neglect. It wasn't the kind of place anyone would think to check in a building for graphic design and creative work. But that was why she liked it—hidden, private, and safe.
Sitting cross-legged on the closed toilet seat, she reached up to run her fingers through the crown of thick dreadlocks framing her face. The beads rustled and clicked softly through the silence. Her hands moved with purpose, searching through the twists of her dreadlocks for something important that she has hidden in earlier. A small grin formed on her lips as she found it—a perfectly pre-rolled joint tied to a lock with a hemp thread.
She untied it and brought it to her nose, inhaling the familiar scent. "Jamaican Sunrise", she whispered to herself, the words slipping out like a soft sigh.
With a lighter at had, she flicks the trigger ans watched the flame catch on the end of the joint, the paper curling into a slow burn. She tool a slow pull, filling her lungs with smoke, and for a second, everything felt still. The world outside, the work on piling up on her desk, all of it seemed to fade away.
She held the smoke in for a second, letting the warmth of the cannabis spread from her chest to the rest of her being. She then exhaled through the nose after feeling a bang in her chest. The Tropical scent of the weed strain filled the small bathroom, mixing with the natural mustiness of the unused space. With each inhale, her mind softened, and the tips of her nerves loosened. Her thoughts became more fluid and more open—she is free.
The tension in her shoulders began to melt away and her body settled into a relaxed state. She wasn't in a rush. This was her moment to unwind and let the high come on naturally, one breath at a time.
Then the restroom main door creaked opened, causing her heart to skip a beat.
Someone has stepped in and is on the other side.
The heels clicked further and into the bathroom. Zara froze, the joint halfway to the lips with smoke smoldering at the tip. The clicking heels stopped their tracks, accompanied by a quick sniff. Zara's stomach tightened at the geature. Could they smell it?
She thought.
There was a pause, a moment where it felt like everything hung heavy in the atmosphere. After a few more sniffs, the heels retreated and closed the main bathroom door behind. Whoever it was, has too much suspicion.
Zara let out a deep sigh as if she has been holding her breath the entire time. Her heart raced for a second, but it was now slowing down to the rhythm of her calm high. The buzz in her head grew stronger with seconds as more cannabis is absorbed further into bloodstream. And just like that, the worry about getting caught floated away and dissolved into the cloud of smoke that had formed. She was already too far in—too high to care. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. Just peace.
* * *
ZARA's P.O.V
It's funny how this half-forgotten bathroom has into my blazing spot. I've been sparking up here for a while now, and guess what? No one has caught me. Well, yet. If the supervisor—Mr Jenkins—hasn't figured it out, then I'm good for now.
Honestly, I couldn't care less about those designated smoking areas. I hate being surrounded by cancer stick smoke—Cigarettes that is. My aunt used to smoke like her life depended on it. And, ironically, it was the reasons it ended. She'd burn through a pack of ten in a single afternoon. The ashtray practically overflowing with buts and ash. It was nasty.
