𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍?

𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝

When I walk in the door, Andy is nowhere in sight. Chris is sitting cross legged on his bed, a joint in one hand and the White Album spinning on the turntable. Revolution 9 weaves through the smoke-tinged air, and for a second I almost feel like I'm in another dimension.

"I hate this song," I say, and then, "Where's Andy?"

Chris shrugs.

"He left last night for the Alice show and never came back. He probably crashed at Jeff's. Where've you been?"

"Boy, have I got a little story for you. I spent the night in jail with Stone."

"No way. Stone? How the fuck? He's pretty straight-edge, as far as us musicians go."

"Yes way. He ran into the back of some tourist's BMW, and, when the cops looked him over, they decided they oughta search his car. And guess what? This Jeff character's weed was in the glove compartment. I don't know Jeff, but he sounds like a bad boy to me. Anyways, they were gonna arrest Stone, and I didn't know if he had a record or not, so I told them it was mine, but then Stone had to argue, so they arrested us both. We spent the night on a hard ass bench in a holding cell."

"Holy shit, Nova."

"I know, right? But that's not the worst of it. They were awful to Stone, just because of his long hair. Just because of his HAIR! It was ridiculous, Chris, they made him BLEED!"

"I know how it is. I've had my fair share of run-ins with authority. At my Catholic school, if you fucked up, they'd bend you over and paddle your ass until they thought you'd learned your lesson." Chris chuckles. "Boy, did I end up over the knees of a lotta nuns. Hmmmmmm..." He muses, "Maybe that's why I'm so into pain."

"Yeah, prob--Wait, what?"

"Nevermind." He carefully examines his fingernails. "What exactly did they do to him?"

"Shoved him around, made him cry, tightened the handcuffs so much that his wrists bled. And when I wouldn't shut up, the cop would yank the chain until Stone cried out."

"If I wasn't already on probation, I'd go kick his ass."

"You're on probation?"

"Long story. Continue with the rant."

"They probably didn't even need to cuff him! I don't think Stone could hurt someone even if he wanted to."

"He's a pretty gentle guy, I'll agree with you there."

"It was so unfair."

"As so-called justice often tends to be." Chris offers me the joint. "Wanna hit?"

I've been offered plenty of joints in my life, and I've turned down every single one. But, at some point, you gotta just say "fuck it." And that's what I do.

"Yeah. How do I do it?"

"It's like smoking a cigarette, kinda."

"I've never smoked a cigarette."

"Breathe in, hold the smoke for a second, breathe out." He instructs, and demonstrates.

I take the joint, do as he says, and end up in a coughing fit. It's not a pleasant experience at all, but I want to get high with Chris. So I'll try till I get it, I guess.

"It's okay. It takes a minute." He says. "Pretend the smoke is normal air."

My second try isn't much better, and coughing ensues.

On my third go-round, though, the smoke manages to settle. After a few more puffs, I'm starting to feel awfully happy, warm, and content.

Chris chuckles.

"Now you've got it."

I smile.

"You're an angel." I tell him, and he is. The halo hovering above his dark curls proves it. He smiles, and suddenly, it's as if all of the light and all of the darkness of the universe are contained in Chris's soul. He could be God, or Satan, or maybe both. Who knows the difference, anyway? He's everything and nothing, all at once. If love and hate could collide, peace and war could agree, and the sun and moon could make love, then that's what Chris would be. It's a paradox, but it seems completely rational when I look at the man in front of me. Heaven and Hell, twisted together into some kind of beautiful disaster.

I wonder if he knows what love is? I wonder if he could show me?

"Nova, are you okay?"

"Mhm."

"I'm not an angel. Far from it."

"No, Chris, you are. You've even got a halo."

"It's just the drugs."

"I thought you were God the first time I saw you."

"God isn't real."

"Maybe not, but you are. At least I think you are. Are you? Or am I making you up? Did I make all of this up? Am I really still back in South Carolina, crying over Daddy's grave? Am I lost in some kind of fever dream?"

"Nova-"

"What's even real? How do I know everything isn't a lie?"

"This is not what I imagined when I imagined you high."

"Is there really even a difference between a lie and the truth?"

"I think she's having her midlife crisis." Andy says from the doorway.

"She's only eighteen." Chris fires back. "I let her try weed, and apparently she questions everything when she's high."

Andy laughs, and, to me, the sound tinkles like bells through the air.

"I'll leave you to it, then." And he disappears back out the door.

I look up at Chris, wondering why his halo all of a sudden looks more like a crown of thorns.

"Can I kiss you?"

"What?"

"Can I kiss you?"

"I-" Before he can get his answer out, I grab the front of his t-shirt and pull him forward. Just as our lips are about to connect, though, he pushes me away.

"Chris, w-"

"Nova, stop. It's just the drugs. You don't actually feel this way about me. And if you do, we'll do this when you're thinking clearly. I don't want you to do anything you're not sure about, or that you'll regret."

"Chris..." I whine, staring at his halo, which is back to looking like a golden ring. "I wanna love an angel."

"Then you picked the wrong guy."