Now they’re stars and the sky looks blue-black; across the street everyone’s lights are out. Can’t smell any sea-salt. Looking away from the louvers for a clock. Guy across the room says its half past.

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High arched ceiling: wooden roof, too dark to get more detail.

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Mod mustard sofa: detachable, cushions embroidered with autumn leaves. White tiles though, with faint grey shadows and there’re a few MACO magazines stacked on top of a black coffee table.

Lights off, candle on black table lighted.

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It’s cylindrical, looks like Kiren’s red Diwali candle; the one with three smaller candles floating in the middle. Guy with light blue cotton shirt and khaki cut-offs sitting on sofa, leaning over to light candle every time it blows out with “Welcome to Barbados” lighter. The flicker’s a bit rusty and the dolphin’s nose is crinkling. Says it was his father’s.

Others across the room, giggling at intervals; bottles of cough syrup and juice stay open; sipping Bajan-Cherry. Guy sitting beneath two girls on the tiles; turns his trucker hat so that the snap and white netting is at the front, red peak facing back. Pulls out a Blackberry as girls’ knees turn slightly towards each other in the chair.

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Someone’s brother running up and down the hall after music changes to Dubstep, locks flying. Chubby guy with plait hair at dining table near the end of the hall, just sitting there.

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Glass table-top: black legs, black chairs, streamlined backs, seats six- glossier than gran- gran’s dining table, would probably melt in the sun.

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Smoke always slithers pass from a guy on the right; this one’s stubbing out the ends of a spliff in a tiny ceramic bowl. His friend walks over to the chair. It dips as she sits. Wearing a ‘Whose Steel Donkey?’ graphic tee. Tells him she designed it, and shakes a plastic cup with a murky brown- green liquid in his face. Looks like vomit but it tastes good. He tastes it, says it tastes good. His friend and the mushroom juice float up three steps leading to the kitchen, pouring him some; also grabs a zip-locked bag of pink and yellow and blue and purple pills.

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Now, he’s lying on his back, raising a fresh one to his lips and breathing slow. Lowers it to the floor as he breathes out; arm would look limp if his fingers weren’t clutching the joint. Two guys walking inside from gallery. East wind blows out candles again. Smoky vanilla scent lingers. He doesn’t get up to light them this time and someone turns on the light and there’s a- Guy across the room.

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His eyes are a lighter brown, he’s standing now; taller than expected, lean; white-T, red denim; would say they’re skinny jeans if he couldn’t walk in them, skate pants? Yes, someone said he’s a skateboarder: hair long enough to be almost curly, texture cottony; hat just dropped on top of it all; he turns the peak to face the front again, smiling; teeth very white , button nose; moustache a bit too thick and- hair on his chin too? Starts snapping his fingers and bobbing his head to the beat; chill-wave; he’s smiling closed mouth now, half-smile; long eyelashes, thick eyebrows; wouldn’t have noticed it if the lights weren’t on, would’ve- Ganja.

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Walking through kitchen, pass dining table, down hall, walking into small cramped space. Eyes closing until there’s a window overhead; a cream curtain’s blowing in the wind. Sit in white plastic chair. Open jar. Hold pipe. Pull bamboo lighter from pocket. Flick lighter and breathe in. Keep breathing in. Now, breathe out...

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“It’s.my.bo-dy’s.plan ♫♪♫”

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Skater boy suddenly appears with a beer, singing something.

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His eyes are really brown; a light chestnut brown, they’re very beautiful really, and unexpected, somehow... he’s nodding his head, replying, asking, replying, asking and soon he’s sitting on the edge of the small desk, sipping his Banks... Probably 6’2? 6’1 the shortest. Asking about that song he was singing, talking about music, talking about white supremacy and black power, talking about his mother, forever reasoning about life until Skater Boy shuts up because sparks are riding his words and sighs trickle in from the living room and his eyes are so fucking erotic as he leans in orgasms nose-dive, crashing throughout the house, splintering bodies over and over and over again-

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A clock chimes: Pills stashed. Pipes pocketed. Lighters clicked. Jars sealed. Eyes open. Blinking until vision focuses in on the small window with the cream curtain that’s still blowing in the wind.

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She doesn’t have to look outside to see there’re no more stars, or that the sky’s wearing a smoky orange-yellow sheath. It always looks like mush around this time.

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She yawns... into a splutter. Sea-spray’s acrid again, tastes like hell, and some rasshole’s touching her hai- huh? A guy is beside her.

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That skater guy is lying next to her on the floor with his eyes still closed. His skin is glowing in the sunlight. She pokes him but he just grunts and moves closer. Long eyelashes. His nose is touching hers now and his fingers stay combing her hair- until they get caught in her curls.

She squeals and his eyelids flutter.

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She can hear the others in the living room: cell phones ringing. Feet dragging. Front door slamming. Cars revving. Time’s speeding up...

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“Talamak” brought her back to him.

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He’s stroking her hair again. He’s smiling at her and stroking her ‘fro:

“...it’s the name of that song I was singing, the one you asked me ‘bout. Think it’s Tagalog for ‘chronic’ or ‘freeloader of drugs’... You think that’s all we are? ”

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His voice sounds the same.

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And those eyes...she can’t believe his eyes are even more beautiful during the day.