When I take a hit of the joint I let the smoke sit in my throat for a while. The burn feels good, but when I breathe out, I begin to cough, choking so hard I think I’ll vomit on his Persian rug; the first thing he and his wife purchased when they bought the house.

“How I’ve corrupted you,” he laughs, shielding his eyes. I know he’s joking, but then again he’s not. 

My hands grab at my throat, gasping for air, but my throat keeps closing up—as if my body has forgotten how to breathe. He gives me a glass of ice water and rubs my back.

“It’s okay, just keep drinking,” he coos.  

After catching my breath I feel really high, almost lightheaded. My eyes start to feel heavy, fluttering open and shut. I lay back down on the rug. He puts on a Pink Floyd CD, the music blasting from his stereo. I roll my eyes—I don’t like Pink Floyd, never have, but he loves them. Like the times in class my sophomore year, he would go on and on about how Dark Side of the Moon is one of his favorite albums. I see through it all though—I think he doesn’t really care about David Gilmour’s guitar tone or Roger Waters’ lyricism about corporal punishment or mortality. He only likes it because he wants to look cultured. I can’t blame him though, I feel the same about Monet’s paintings. To me, they look like what flowers look like without my glasses, too blurry and bright—but people love his art and so must I. 

As I lie on the rug I tug at my shirt—the Smashing Pumpkins shirt he gifted me for my birthday. I’m only wearing underwear and I feel really cold, goosebumps covering my legs. After my first hit of the joint, he told me to put the shirt on and take my jeans off. 

Last week I went into a Victoria’s Secret store and cowardly bought blue lace underwear, my hands shaking, bolting out of the store without saying “Have a good day” to the lady at the cash register. As terrifying as it was, I took some strange pleasure in it. I wanted to seem so adult to him—not that shy girl in his third period class. When he saw the blue lace underwear he gave me a funny look, like it was so strange to see me in something so grown-up. I only smiled and sheepishly said, “I wore it for you.” 

***

I trace back to how this all started, or at least try to. Was it when he called me an artist or when he put his hand on my lower back whenever I asked him for help? Or maybe it all started on the first day, when I walked into his art class as a sophomore—I was too meek and see-through, he had to sink his teeth into me. He took his time with me, a man of restraint. He first kissed me on my eighteenth birthday. He pulled me out of play practice after school and said he needed me to redo a project in his class—my perspective was off. As the sun set, warm honey-golden light streamed through his office windows—our shadows casting an image of a girl and a man. His hands shook as he kissed me and our eyes were both full of tears. Isn’t that so sweet, so pure? 

A few months later he told me that he and his wife were separating, not divorcing, because his wife is a devout catholic, though later he told me he thought it was because of her pride. 

He told me with a big sigh of relief, his hands around my waist, and his voice in my ear. “We can finally be together.” 

I stood there not knowing what to do or say, and wondered what “together” really meant. I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or kiss him. I couldn’t tell if it was love, or if he just poured himself into me, and it was his devotion that kept me. I felt full of pity for him, but the kind of pity you feel for an old dog. That day I let him touch me in his car on the side of the train tracks outside of town.

 

It’s summer now, so hot that you feel like you’ll melt under the July sun. It’s easier but harder to go about everything. We still have to sneak around to be with each other, but I get to see him more often. Last week we went on a “date” which consisted of him driving me around and checking out the little shops two towns away from his house. Us stopping by the college town he wants me to go to.  

“Is it selfish that I want you close to me?” he asked, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on my knee, a copy of Lolita in my lap. 

For dinner, we stopped at a small diner that serves 24-hour breakfast. 

“What do you think about stimulants?” He asked. 

I turned my head and blinked a few times, chewing the piece of toast I took from his plate. I rolled around the word stimulant in my mind and tried to remember where I recognized it from. The answer: Health class. I envisioned Mrs. Anders writing it on the board as I was copying down her notes. 

“Like caffeine?” my voice sounded oddly high-pitched. 

He let out a laugh and I felt embarrassed. I’d do anything to hear his laugh, even if it’s at my expense. He smiled, “Well, sort of. I’m thinking more like a drug.” 

I furrowed my brows—drug? What kind of drug? I thought of my long history with antidepressants, how none of them worked. We once talked about that and I told him about everything—the self-hatred, self-harm, and then the hospital visit. I cried and cried into his shoulder until I couldn’t breathe. I told him everything, every detail of the hospital I could remember. He told me about his troubled boyhood in return, how he took Lithium for years.

“Um...” I stuffed my mouth full of hashbrowns. 

“Would you ever like to get high with me?” his tone soft, his head resting against his fist—the soft diner lights glaring off of his glasses.

I almost choked, coughing out, “Excuse me?”

He laughed, “Oh yeah, I forgot about how you’re a good kid and all.” He took a sip of his decaf coffee. 

I tugged on my hair in a brainless girlish way. The idea of being high made me feel very nervous, especially the idea of being high with him. My mother has never been against weed, but she would always stress that if I got high I should get high with people that I trusted. Whenever she’d mentioned it, I’d feel annoyed because I hated how she was so okay with it. I wanted her to scold me, to tell me to stay away from it because it would label me as some burnout. The “stoner” kids at my school are treated like dirt, seen as bad people, which I know isn’t true, but that’s the last thing I’d want to be seen as. 

I started to wonder if getting high with him would compromise his image of me—that timid overachieving girl who would rather die than get a bad grade. Or maybe it would only compromise the image I have made for myself—the type of girl I thought I was or should be.

I laughed nervously. “I don’t know.” 

“Are you worried about what I’d think?” I can tell by his tone he thinks my bashfulness is cute. Under the table, his leg brushes up against mine. “Believe it or not, I used to smoke a lot when I was your age.” 

I laughed because it made sense even with his fancy degree—his ideals and the way his life reeks of drug exploration and spiritualism. I only shrugged in response, but he pushed further.

“I bought some pot the other night—I’m sure it will be fun. We’ll have a good time.” He gave me a cocky smile.

I hated the way he said pot, making him sound like an old, old man. I scoffed in response, and quipped, “Are you sure you’re not going through a midlife crisis?” We both laughed, and I leaned against the booth, digging my fingers into the aging leather of the seat. 

“Maybe you’re right,” he sighed, “but I’d really like for you to try it. I think it would help you—y’know, with your nerves. I would guide you through it, it’s a special thing to get high with someone else. It’s something you never forget.”

I furrowed my brows again at that, how he called it a “special thing”—I wanted to be crude and cynically ask, “Is it like losing your virginity or something?” But a waitress came over to our table to refill his cup of coffee. 

As she poured, she asked him, “Would your daughter like a refill of her Cherry Coke?” 

An annoyed expression passed over his face. His lips parted to say something, then he thought better of it. He awkwardly coughed out, “Yeah, sure—she’ll take a refill.” 

When she left he looked down at his mug of coffee, defeated, ashamed of what he said—what he implied by that interaction with her. All I could do was play with the ice in my empty cup, moving it around with my straw—trying to pretend like I didn’t hear him. “I’ll have to think about it. Okay?”

***

I look at the ceiling and feel paranoid—paranoid that the weed is spiked, or that I’m not safe with him and I’ll die here. We’ve been alone together many times, it’s silly to think so, but something feels different—like anything could happen. He lays down next to me on the rug, his fingers in my hair.

He whispers, “Thank you for trying it, for being so open-minded for me.” 

I’m so aware of him, he’s so close that my eyes can’t focus—only a greying beard and green eyes. His hands start to linger over my body. He kisses me, but I don’t move or react. I’m stuck staring at the ceiling. I swear that I can hear the air around me moving. The fear of dying comes back. I feel his hands leave my body and my eyes open. He’s sitting on his knees, like he’s praying.  He looks at me with astonishment, as if I’m Venus amongst the sea, emerging from the great big sea shell—her big eyes asking, Why do you stop and stare?

“I’d let you do anything to me.” My words come out staggered and sharp—I sound bitter, but he finds my bitterness to be sweet. “Has anyone ever told you that before?” 

He runs his hands across my cheek. “No, never.” 

I let out a sullen chuckle, “Not even your wife?” I want to draw blood with my words, but he just stares and stares. 

He shakes his head.“No, not even her.” 

“Well, now someone has told you.”

“Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” My tone is lazy. I stare back at the ceiling and think about the interaction with the waitress at the diner. I try to swallow the uncomfortable questions bubbling up in my throat. At first, it made me feel self-conscious—to think that he sees me as some “parentless” kid who follows him around everywhere,  but then I realize what it actually means. My face goes red at the thought of calling him daddy, but then it makes me laugh and roll my eyes, of course, he’d be into that. Though, no matter how high or smitten I am, that’s something I’ll never do. 

He’s always been so curious about my family, like the time after class he joked, “I’m starting to think you were born in a lab. You rarely talk about your parents.” It made me feel so insecure or like he was picking on me, but it’s always a joy to be his specimen—his pins stuck through my wings like I was a butterfly.

His smile starts to fade. He swallows hard and I know he’s going to say something that will make me feel so helplessly small. 

“You know you mean more to me than her?” 

His fingers are back in my hair. He looks so at peace when he says this and it makes me feel sad, and guilty, but strangely tender. To think that I’m worth ruining his life for—that I caused the split. In my head I always imagine his wife leaving him—a piece of my hair on his sweater, a poem written by me crumpled up in his pocket. My mind runs wild on the details.

I had never met or talked to his wife, only gazed at her from afar. She was a thin, tall, black-haired woman. She had a beautiful, strong smile, and a bony, upturned nose. I only saw her at school events—school plays or choir concerts. She was always wearing black and a maroon lip. I couldn’t help but feel so sickly jealous of her, the contrast of her dark hair and blue eyes, even her wrinkles had beauty to them. She reminded me of Joan Crawford. He never talked about her. The only time she was ever mentioned or suggested was when she called him during one of our after-school meetings in his office. He’d give me an object to paint and stared at me all hungry-eyed. 

He answered the phone with an air of irritation, saying, “Could you call me later? I’m with a student right now,” and muttered out a resentful “Love you” as he hung up.

He lets out a weary sigh as if he’s been holding his breath. He clears his throat and looks at me with his sad green eyes, like he were a dog that had been kicked too many times, and I was a kind girl who wanted to take him home and clean him up, give him nothing but love. 

I wait a while to answer, “Yeah, I know,” I say sadly. My feeling of wanting to be bitter is gone. All I want to do is curl up in his lap and cry. 

Again, he looks at me like I’m not a girl, but a piece of art. A Balthus painting looking back at him, wishing he could read the girl’s mind, Is she thinking of me the way I think of her?

He moves closer to my face and kisses my cheek, his hot breath in my ear, “There’s something about you, something that makes me feel like you’ve lived and experienced so many things I’ll never understand.”

He smiles again and lets out a soft chuckle, “Part of me wonders if you even know more than me.” His eyes travel over my body, my eyes, lips, hips, all of me. I feel too tired and high to talk like this. His adult life is too heavy for me, like weights around my ankle as I sink to the bottom of the ocean.

***

As I lie on the soft, red Persian rug, I can’t stop thinking about these past few weeks—our fight and then gentle make-up. It started in his bed. He gripped my wrists over my head and whenever I moved, he squeezed harder. It was all in good fun—exciting in a scary way like a rollercoaster or a haunted house. 

I’d giggle and he’d press harder, asking, “You like that?” in a wolfish tone like he could eat me.

But then the good fun turned into something else—his hands making their way up my dress. I panicked and squirmed away, accidentally kicking him in the nose. He let out a grunt and I could see the crimson blood flowing from his nostrils onto his mustache. I felt awful for what I had done. I wanted to cry, take his hands, and kiss his pain away, but I was too angry. I slumped against his headboard and held my hands tightly to my chest. 

“You took it too far,” my voice shaking—feeling that same lump in my throat I’d get whenever I was yelled at as a child. I tried to fight against the tears, but they kept rolling against my face. I grabbed my things and fled to the door. 

“Come on Layla, I’m sorry!” he said, covering his nose with his hand, the other one up in the air. He got up from the bed and tried to reach for me. His bloody fingers brushed up against my arm.

“You’re a pervert!” I shrieked, my eyes flooding with hot tears. I ran down the stairs and out the door. Once I was outside I felt pressured to go back in and make amends—though I knew I should sit and wait it out.

I returned to his house around midnight. I grabbed my old rusty bike from the garage and tried to ride it to his house. The seat being too high made me nervous. I walked most of the way. He’d always tell me about how he was going to teach me how to ride a bike, and I’d always let out an odd chuckle and think, Isn’t that something my father was supposed to teach me? 

By the time I reached his house, I was cold and tired. He answered the door with a red nose and red-rimmed eyes. He let me in without saying a word. I looked at the bloody rag and bag of ice next to the sink and felt sick to my stomach with remorse. 

With my hands in my pockets, I muttered, “I’m sorry.”

He sat and sighed, looking for the right words. “Don’t apologize. I took it too far, you’re right.”

I tried to cut him off—attempting to take the blame away from him and onto me, but he interrupted, saying, “I feel so out of control when I’m with you”—and with that, all was forgiven.

***

At around midnight, I get the munchies, which he warned me of. Blueberries and strawberry ice cream wait in the fridge for me. When he kisses me, he says he can taste the blueberries on my lips. 

With the rug against my leg and his mouth on mine, I pull away—looking into his green eyes. “You have my mother’s eyes,” I whisper to him with a mix of amazement and terror. How they’re both green with auburn near the iris. 

I start to feel a sting of guilt in my eyes. How I lied to my mother, told her I was spending the night at a friend’s house. I could die and she wouldn’t know—a thought that starts to rattle my brain. I look at his hands and wonder if they could kill—around my throat, gasping like I did when I first inhaled the joint. I miss my mom, I wish I could say, but the mention of her feels like a betrayal. 

“Is that a good thing?” His voice, low.  

“I don’t know.” I’m sad and soft, which makes him stir—always has. I enchanted him by being moody, looking out the window of his class, telling him how the first snow fall always made me cry. 

He starts to kiss me again, sloppy and handsy. I can tell he’s hungry and I’m the thing he craves, but I’m too busy hiding behind my thoughts to react—to blush and act shy.

I start to wonder if this is all a ploy, the weed– me half naked on the rug. A chance to play house, or a way for him to act out something that’s lived in his head—love with a shadow of perversion. 

I imagine myself as bait—pierced with a hook that’s thrown into a lake, waiting to be swallowed. I think back to Sunday school lessons, a story that’s always scared me—Jonah and the whale. I feel like it fits now, the way he’s gnawing at me. 

 

He stops and looks at me. His hair is all disheveled, a black and grey mess, making a face that resembles a pout. “Can we try?” He asks—which catches me off guard.

“What?” 

“Just like how you tried the pot. I’ll stop if you want me to.” He's antsy, I can tell his clenched jaw and unfocused stare. “Is that okay?” he asks in a whisper, like he’s afraid I’ll say no.

I sigh the word yes like I’m so bored—the air I exhaled stinging my lungs. What other answer is there? 

 

I close my eyes, and the shirt is lifted off me, my blue underwear to the side—the rug digging into my skin. He is careful this time, asking what he can and can’t do, but he still grabs handfuls of me. I don’t fight or scream or kick—I just lie flat on my back. I am scared, but smiling, my teeth chattering.

Somewhere in the middle, I feel my leg brush against my bowl of ice cream—I hear the spoon clatter onto the floor. He stops and then gets all stern with me, “Layla, the rug.” 

I can’t help but laugh—fucking his past student isn’t the issue, but spilled ice cream is? He gets up, rushes to a cabinet and grabs some cleaner. He frantically scrubs the rug in a way that reminds me of Cinderella. 

“It’s fine, just leave it,” I say, my shriek turning into a laugh. 

“I knew today wasn’t the day.” He stops scrubbing, holding his head in his hands. His face, the tone of his voice—it’s a slap in the face, enough to make me feel lucid again. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“No, I am—truly.” His sorrow is tinged with irritation. “Let’s just go to bed, alright?” He hands me a blanket to wrap myself in and heads upstairs to his room—his footsteps heavy with disappointment. 

As soon as he leaves, I start to cry a deep, quiet sob. I wrap the blanket tighter around me, the smell of the cleaning product in the air. I feel a mix of cruelty and grief. His eagerness to clean the rug—to do away with the evidence of me. I say to myself “I bet he was worried what his wife would think.” The thought is as sharp as a knife, but then it dulls—I start to cry for myself, my odd luck of letting myself be charmed by him. I tell myself that it gives me experience, that I have something girls my age lack. But I’m just as sour and blemished as them—half a virgin, heartbroken, crying on the floor, but instead of a boy, it’s a middle-aged man whose shame and guilt jumps into me.