Emma

By Chris Jones

I still remember what you wore. It was your marijuana-colored crochet halter top and those high-waisted, hip-hugging jean shorts with a slight roll at the hem. I remember your boots too. Black Chelseas with perfect scuff. You left your bra at home.

My baby blues made you look, three times. But my joint lured you in. That OG Kush, it’s perfect bait in the desert. How to Be a Heartbreaker  rippled through the crowd from the main stage.

“Are we vibin’?” you asked.

You took the joint, pressed it to your lips, and looked me in the eyes.

Yeah, we’re vibin’.