SHE REACHED behind the chair she sat in, grabbing a bundle of dried white sage off of her windowsill, and placed it in an opalescent abalone shell in the middle of her coffee table. She flicked her lighter and held the yellow flame against the sage until it took, and then blew it out, fanning the smoke swirls into wavy, wider wisps that filled the space between us.
“I feel a need to cleanse,” she said. “I keep burning it, but it's not working.”
“I think the whole point of rituals,” I said, already sorry that I started, “is that they help your brain reach a point that allows change. Sage and smoke won't fix your problems.”
“But you burn it.”
Her words were sharp and fast. She italicized the you.
“I do,” I said. “And I love it. I love my rituals. But the difference is that I know smoke can't heal me. It just helps me get to where I'm going.”
Then she unzipped a baggie of bud extracted from her coat pocket and with surgical precision unscrewed the grinder top, shredded it to perfect bits, packed it neatly into her blue glass bowl, and with another fwick-fwickfwick of the lighter inhaled until it took. Everything she used was set out before her on the table in a neat line, like medical instruments. She blew out smoke, coughed a few times, and held the bowl up, gesturing in my direction.
“You want some?” she asked.
“I'm good,” I said.
It was 9:30 A.M. Weed was fine, but we were still sipping our coffees. I hadn't eaten breakfast yet. All it would do for me in that moment was make me feel how fast my heart pounded from caffeine on an empty belly. She picked up the lighter, inhaled again, deep and fast, holding her breath and closing
