She was sleepy, tired when I got there. Yawning — expressly, showingly — perhaps to ensure in me no mistake of it. Perhaps. She was wearing a hockey jersey, and as it did seem, nothing else. Let us say of this though I was not appalled.

Though I could not quite tell for certain — hockey jerseys naturally do fit big and drop low, by design of course — regardless, I was not about to inspect her details. My self-control, in this particular sort of matter has always been, I will say competent. My reaction to her, I’ll presume at least was imperceptible, but in my mind of course, I was definitely preoccupied with the prospect of what may or may not have been hiding beneath her jersey.

Then, and rather immediately, somehow she perked up. A real 180. Pretty weird. Pretty weird of her. That is. Pretty weird of the both of us, actually — this friendship of ours we’d managed to keep through the years. What was I even doing there, that night, I had to wonder. It was past three AM, it was a weekday. I had texted her, pretty much completely out of nowhere — that much, if you ask me speaks volumes, in and of itself, regardless of safe, pretty words like, friendship.

I hadn’t so much as talked to her in, perhaps it had been months. Truly. Months. Months had gone us by and not once did either of us bother to change that. But she obliged me, though, on that night, that late, weekday night and so, there I was, and there so was she, and quite possibly, as it very much did seem, she was ass-naked to boot.

“You drinking,” I asked — ever so casually, as that, such were the times. That’s just how it was. The question I asked of her was as about as normal and frequent a question as she, myself or anyone else we knew for that matter would find themselves being asked on any given evening, back then. Such were the times. I had might as well asked her, like, something entirely benign like, how was your night, because, no matter the case it would entail only the same. So, as of course, I’d cut to the chase, I asked her if she was drinking. I myself was looking for drinks.

“No. I’m just groggy. I was sleeping, for like, forever,” she said, rubbing her eyes. She was sitting indian-style on the living room couch. I was standing at across the room, there facing her directly.

“I haven’t seen you in forever,” she said.

I didn’t look. I’d thought to look, but I didn’t.

I did not know what to say to her. I didn’t really have anything in mind in particular. I guess it simply had just been that long since we’d talked; she as well was searching for words, it did seem like that. It wasn’t awkward, just, perhaps it felt unfamiliar, as if that perhaps we’d gone out of tune. Or something. I don’t know. And I also don’t care enough to say, really, but — well. I digress. As I said, It was not awkward, but it was not graceful though either. I think I’ll just leave it at that.

I looked around the room, I did a few, up and down and overs. Briefly, of the room, and then, “Smoke,” I said. Just that. Smoke. That one word, was all my words.

“Cigarette,” she asked, and then, following a pause added, “or weed?”

Her voice piped up, notedly enthusiastically, upon uttering that second option.

I engaged it. “OK, pothead,” I said.

Though I did not realize it, until I did it, in that moment I glanced. And to my discovery, she was wearing shorts. Shorts, at least of some sort. So, the mystery was solved, I guess. Yeah. But. Her hockey jersey, though, it really did not drop all so low, I remember noticing that and thinking to myself — repeatedly I’ll admit.

Again I glanced.

“Yeah,” she said, “Well, I’m sure you smoke probably way more than me, knowing you.”

“Yeah, probably,” I said, blankly, without expression.

She raised her brow. “Pothead, you,” she said.

To this I nodded. And I’d have nodded just the same no matter the case; it simply did not matter to me one way or the other, regardless of whether what she’d said even be true. I didn’t care.

“So, pothead you,” she said, as if to address me.

“Which one is it, or will I have to guess,” she asked, now once again.

“Oh, yeah,” I said, now seeing that I’d forgotten, “Uh-hm, both,” I said.

She obliged. We went out to the porch and we had our smokes.

The night was unusually warm outside, for being January in Michigan. The air had felt to me as, somewhere in the 50’s. Difficult though, is that to gauge, having no reference for comparison; that night aside, the winter that year was ever typical, Northern Michigan harsh. But at least for only that night, somehow it was remarkably warm. Naturally of course we both had commented on this. She’d made some joke about it, that it was global warming, or something, she said, I didn’t quite catch it. I didn’t hear.

“Yeah, it’s uh — like Indian summer, you know, but it’s winter, though, so, it’s opposite,” I said, having apparently been distracted by something. The words had made for little sense.

She shook her head at me — in this particular way of hers, she often does when confronted with absurdity. I’d seen that shake of hers before.

I rolled the joint on the surface of the porch rail, and we went back in.