Miss Funk.

The lines on their palms were like a maze, and I never wanted to find my way out. I followed them intently with the stalk of a dehydrated leaf I had picked from the dirt beneath us. I don’t know how to articulate what I felt in that moment, other than: I wasn’t suicidal, but I did want to die. Life surely couldn’t get any better than this, and I couldn’t think of a more blissful way to go.

We ended up there, in the woods, because the internet had insisted we touch grass. It was a blazing hot summer, the ground had dried up, and the ‘grass’ now resembled the kind you’d find on a straw man hat. But touching her was touching grass. Lush, green, silky, freshly cut grass.

Miss Funk—that was the name of the weed we had been smoking. A “couch-lockey” high, the guy at the weed store promised us. He didn’t mention anything about falling in love with your best friend.