In Deep Thought
A short fiction story in which a lot happens
It was the night before Wednesday, well, technically it was 11 a.m., and all throughout the shitty apartment, nothing was stirring, not even a wisp of smoke.
They sat near one another, slumped limply into the couch like abandoned laundry, an ash stain marking the cushion between them like a small memorial. Jill wore a gray sweatshirt, unzipped, her crop top tugged down just enough to expose a push-up bra and the hint of a nipple. Her PINK yoga pants, now faded to a defeated “PK,” dipped slightly at the waist. None of this registered. She was elsewhere, eyes closed, perfectly still, at peace, beside an absurdly large bong.
Then, suddenly, she stirred. Her eyes blinked open as if surfacing from deep water, her face tightening with the strain of trying to remember something important. She turned toward the television. Some adult cartoon flickered across the screen. It was difficult to tell which one. The display warped and spiderwebbed after Michael put the remote through it a month ago, when they were off, and he was out of bud.
Michael sat beside her, having very confidently smoked the dab first and now paying the price. His patchy pornstache clung to his upper lip, while the wisps of hair below his lower lip collected the faintest evidence of drool as his head lolled forward. Slowly, with great effort and no urgency whatsoever, he turned to Jill.
“Wha?” he managed, bravely.
“Wha?” he managed, bravely.
“You say something?”
“Hmmm. Maybe. I forgot.”
“Oh, ok”
Her eyes rolled back, then snapped open. She held up a finger.
“Oh, actually—”
She caught herself, shifting to grab the bong and take a long rip first. The smoke hit her throat all at once, and she half-choked, half-coughed it out. But she was practiced, smoothing things over in a slow inhale.
“Yes?” Michael pressed, reaching for the bong.
“I could eat.” She said, finally, smoke curling into her hair.
It was a statement that paid no mind to the open, half-eaten snack bags on the table before them.
“Should we order something?”
“Yeah.”
He waved a hand. “Pass me the lighter.”
She pulled it from somewhere tight inside her bra and flicked it to him, then sank back into her slouch, crossing her ankles.
Silence settled comfortably between them, its only companion the soft bubbling of the bong as Michael took a rip of his own. A haze now hung in the room.
Somewhere from its mist, Jill spoke.
“Hey, do you think pigeons know they’re pigeons?”
“Hey, do you think pigeons know they’re pigeons?”
He sat with it, really sat with it, the kind of profound philosophical question that would’ve made Pascal pause mid-wager, trading God for avian self-awareness. Michael took another pull, exhaling a thick, earthy cloud in no particular direction, a man contributing nothing to the atmosphere save for vibes.
The bong hit had fried his brain. No, the dab had a while back. An hour? Five minutes? Time, he decided, was not a measurable concept.
He turned to Jill, studying her like she might contain answers. Her brown eyes were laced with thin red veins, her sleep-starved bags heavy beneath them, her lips cracked from smoke. And still, still, he felt something stir. A warmth flowing down through him.
She had never looked more beautiful.
His gaze drifted downward. He noticed her nipple, half-forgotten, and suddenly, an idea.
Moving with the deliberate slowness of a man under deep-sea pressure, he raised a finger and gently tapped it.
“Boop.”
They broke instantly. Laughter erupted out of them, uncontrollable, violent, sacred. Nothing, nothing, had ever been as funny as that boop. Jill laughed until her stomach hurt, folding in on herself. Michael laughed because she was laughing, but also because, objectively, he was the funniest man alive.
Though… wait.
What about, what’s his name?
The thought curdled. Michael felt a flicker of irritation, then anger. At Jill. At what’s-his-name. At himself. Especially at himself, for not being able to remember what what’s-his-name’s name actually was.
Then Jill snorted mid-laugh.
And just like that, he was gone again, back into it, laughing just as hard.
Five minutes later, he composed himself. Mostly.
He had been thinking of something important. Something big.
What was it?
Hmm.
Oh.
“I do think chickens know they’re chickens,” he said finally, with quiet authority. “At least a little bit.”
“I do think chickens know they’re chickens,” he said finally, with quiet authority. “At least a little bit.”
“I could eat a chicken right about now,” Jill said, glancing down at herself, considering her nipple.
It occurred to her that she should probably tuck herself back in, so she adjusted her bra.
Her peripheral caught sight of Michael, folded into the couch: one blue sock, the other a washed-out yellow. A slight curl on his lips like he was in on something. His jet black hair falling messily into his eyes, heavy-lidded, bloodshot blue. Such a sorrowful look.
And yet, something in her stirred for him. Nothing like it ever had for what’s-his-face. What was it? She couldn’t care to land it. Didn’t really try.
She just tilted her head slowly and stuck her tongue out at Michael instead.
He blinked, processing it. The reply came a little lagged.
“Should we roll up?”
“Good idea.”
Neither of them moved.
Her gaze drifted. The room felt stale, warm despite the old floor fan wheezing faintly from the corner. A dull glow flickered from the TV—orange, purple, blue—washing over the clutter in the room.
Overflowing ashtray, leftover chips, and crumbs.
“We ordered, right?” She said it out loud. Or thought she did.
“Ordered what.”
“The food.”
“Oh.”
Another pause.
“Shouldn’t we roll one first?”
“… Yeah. Good idea.”
“...Yeah. Good idea,” Jill replied, after a beat.
Michael set to work with the quiet, deliberate intensity of Bobby Fischer contemplating his next great move. Michael had liked chess once.
With great effort, he peeled himself off the Velcro grip of the couch and got moving. He could do this. He could absolutely do this on his own.
Good song, his brain chimed in, some chemical alignment enabling the power of reference. He began humming a bassline, low, confident, as he shuffled toward his bedroom.
“And I smell like shit,” he sang softly to himself, then leaned in to sniff his own armpit. Stale. A hint of body odor. He laughed under his breath.
Behind him, Jill had, with immense effort, located her phone on the coffee table. She stared into it now, slack-jawed, scrolling through notifications.
“You on DoorDash?” Michael called.
Jill blinked, radiant. “Huh?”
Michael paused. The thread slipped. Something about why he’d come in here.
“You wanted something, right?” he tried. “Something to eat?”
Jill considered this, the thought moving slowly through her. “Oh, right… but we wanted to do something first, right?”
Now it was Michael’s turn. He stood there, swaying slightly, looking around his bedroom like it might explain itself to him.
“Oh… uh…”
What was he doing in here?
Posters lined the walls, Marley, Wiz, Cheech and Chong, Trailer Park Boys, all the greats, watching over him. His mattress lay half-haphazard on the floor, sheets twisted, vaguely remembered as having been clean a week ago, when Jill was coming over. Clean sheets, because girls liked that. Probably.
Was it condoms? Were they gonna fuck?
He moved to the dresser and yanked open the top drawer. Off-brand Nike socks tangled with unfolded underwear. A value pack of ultra-ribbed Trojans sat buried within. And then,
“Oh. We wanted to smoke.”
He grabbed the stash box, covered in stickers, full of bud, and rolling papers before heading back out.
Jill hadn’t moved. Still on her phone, texting.
Was she texting what’s-his-face?
Michael felt a small, slow irritation bloom in his chest.
“Texting someone?” he asked, just sharp enough to notice.
“Texting someone?” he asked, just sharp enough to notice.
Jill glanced up.
There it was, that edge. His jaw tightened then released, a flash of resolve in the furrow of his brow. So brief it was close to nothing, but there all the same.
She liked that.
“Not really.” She said, eyes glued on him as she locked the screen and put the phone face down.
But Michael had already looked away, settling back into the couch to bend over the tray, hands moving fast, with practiced focus.
That, too, she liked.
“Come closer,” she said. “Let me watch you roll.”
“Come closer,” she said. “Let me watch you roll.”
Michael swallowed his irritation about her texting what’s-his-face. What’s-his-face couldn’t roll like he could, and for that reason, neither could she.
“Watch close, Tootsie Roll,” he said, a crooked smile forming as Jill giggled at the name, soft and automatic.
She couldn’t roll a joint to save her life.
He worked with quiet precision, fingers practiced, efficient, he could’ve done it in his sleep. Jill snuggled into him as he worked, arms wrapping around his stomach, her head settling onto his shoulder. She watched his hands closely, something in the rhythm of it turned her on, he knew.
The paper crinkled softly between his fingers. He shaped, packed, rolled, then leaned in and sealed it with a slow, deliberate lick.
Right then, his stomach rumbled.
Ah, yes.
They had been hungry. They were going to order food.
Weren’t they?
Michael finished the joint and glanced down. Jill was already looking up at him, eyes half-lidded, expectant, waiting for a kiss.
He blinked, momentarily caught. They looked at each other.
And looked at each other.
And kept looking.
Then Michael frowned slightly, something slipping back into place.
“…You wanted to order food?” he asked. “What did you want again?”
“…You wanted to order food?” he asked. “What did you want again?”
“You.”
There was a beat between which they grinned at each other, then broke down laughing again, Michael doubling in on himself, wheezing as Jill snorted.
Someone’s foot knocked the table, and the bong wobbled, water sloshing, almost spilling.
“Careful…” he chuckled, reaching out too late.
But Jill grabbed it with both hands, steady reflexes born from too many gaming hours. Besides, the bong was important. It had been a gift from Michael, probably the most expensive item in the room. Cost more than the TV.
“All good, we’re good.” But she didn’t let go right away.
She soaked in the laughter that now drifted between them like smoke—the orange-purple-blue flashing over his face, hardening then softening it.
She felt it again, that flutter in her chest.
“I did say you.” She tilted her head slightly.
Then—oh, right. The flutter was in her stomach.
Hunger.
He sparked the joint.
A soft crackle, a slow pull, the tip flaring. Smoke curled around him.
“Guess we’ll have to see if I’m better than chicken,” he said.
“Guess we’ll have to see if I’m better than chicken,” he said.
He inhaled deep, grinning at Jill, who grinned back, already halfway there with him. He leaned in and kissed her, open-mouthed, the way she liked, and exhaled the smoke straight into her.
Jill had either been horny or just too stoned to anticipate this. Either way, it hit her all at once. She recoiled, coughing, sputtering, eyes watering as the smoke betrayed her lungs.
And then, they broke.
Laughter, immediate and uncontrollable. Jill doubled over, clutching her stomach, gasping between wheezes. Once again, her boyfriend had proven himself the funniest man alive. Absolutely unrivaled.
Michael smiled to himself, satisfied, and took another long drag from the joint. He flicked the ash vaguely toward the tray on the table. He held the smoke deep in his lungs.
Woah. He was, well and truly, what was the word?
…No, not that one. You can’t say that one.
Stupid high.
He sat in it, blank and suspended, as the world softened at the edges.
At some point, unclear when, Jill had folded herself into his lap, her head tilted back so she could look up at him. Without asking, she reached up and plucked the joint from his fingers.
Soon enough, she joined him there. Same fog. Same quiet vacancy.
They sat like that for a while.
How long? Michael couldn’t have said. Time had long since stopped having any meaning to them.
Eventually, he reached for a phone, his? hers? It didn’t matter. The lock screen lit up: a picture of the two of them, smiling, clearer, from some earlier version of the same day.
3:03 p.m.
Then, suddenly, Jill stirred.
Her eyes blinked open as if surfacing from deep water, her face tightening with the strain of trying to remember something important.
Her eyes blinked open as if surfacing from deep water, her face tightening with the strain of trying to remember something important.
She looked at him, a thought, fragile, almost there—
“So…”
The joint burned low between her fingers. She dropped it into the ashtray and curled into him, close, eyes drifting shut again.
“Wha.”
A slow beat.
“Do you think pigeons know they’re pigeons?”
 | A guest post by
|
Whoever wrote the third section, I extend my special respect to them
Pigeons think they're tiny winged homeless people who used to be postal couriers