Max prided himself from buying the

one hitter

from an indie smoke shop instead of a chain. It wasn't local to where he lived, but a thirty minute drive away. His mom would've been so upset had she known what he was burning all that 

gas

for. He never told her. Friends. Dinner. They wanted to hang out in the big city. These were the kind of things he told his mom. She seemed okay with that.

The long haired native american man at the smoke shop sold the one hitter to Max. Not by saying anything but by holding it in his hands. Max said, 'holy shit. that looks like a cigarette.' And the man winked at him.

Now a days Max wasn't concerned about getting caught smoking weed. People were more tolerant of it now. He stook to his old one hitter for nostalgia reasons. So many nights he had smoked with it. Shared it with friends. One time his friend had said "it's not really a one hitter if the two of us are hitting it... now is it?"

Max was willing to share. Getting high was nice. But sharing a high, better. It was a shame that Dave didn't smoke. Didn't drink even. Weird guy. Max never knew he could get along with such people. But funny that Dave was the best roommate he'd ever had. They never fought. Communication was cordial. And it didn't feel awkward spending hours of quiet time together in the same space.

They probably wouldn't live together forever. Eventually Max would find a girlfriend something. Who though? Linda? Nah. Why was he thinking about that.

"Hey, bozo! You paying attention?"

Max came back to. Saw Linda glaring at him.

"Oh yeah. I'm paying attention."

Her face flashed disapproval. He winked at her. Like that native american man had done to him at that smoke shop. Many years ago.