We’re in a 60s-styled bedroom. It’s golden hour. Around 4:46pm, to be exact. Saturday night? Maybe Sunday. Either way we have nothing to do. I’m lounging on a pastel green couch, you’re rolling our next jay at the kitchen table. The lights are dim; not because we like the dark, but because the sun is doing most of the work at this time of day. I’m wearing an over-sized 90s shirt that says something like “baby” in bold print and a comfy pair of underwear. My nails are painted a brilliant pastel pink, and my lips are the same hue. Eyebrow piercing. I think there’s another one at my hip bone. You’re in nothing but sweatpants and an open flannel shirt. The record player’s playing Astrud Gilberto one minute, then Chance the next. Our Chinese take-out is on its way. There’s a fan nearby, and I contemplate getting up to use it but I’m too lazy. It’s hot and we’re sweating just a little. Not enough to bother us. We just enjoy the heat and the haziness and the laziness and the love. The air is relaxed and blissful like our high. I’m popping bubbles with my watermelon bubblegum. My hair is a bleached blonde-brown. Darker at the roots. You stop what you’re doing to comment on how beautiful I look, so at peace in my element. I smile and reach for my journal on the coffee table. I fix up the last haiku I wrote. Now we’re smoking up and laughing about some silly video we watched the other day. We don’t know it then, but we’re going to miss that day so much. So so much. One of those days where everything is peach.