Something was different.
“Did you get a new sofa?” I asked, eyeing the low wooden frame in the corner, its single off-white cushion, clean lines, and the unmistakable aura of cheapness.
“Yes!” she chirped, her eyes gleaming. “Well—new to me. A friend was getting rid of her futon. It turns into a bed, see?”
With too much enthusiasm, she grabbed the backrest and yanked it forward. It crashed to the floor with a deafeningthud, revealing a threadbare, suspiciously stained mattress that seemed to exhale a puff of dust and regret.
“I hoped you might come back,” she added quickly. Her words flew out like something she’d been dying to say but didn’t dare until now. “And I thought if you did… maybe you’d feel more comfortable having your own bed.”
“I see,” I said warily, my eyes fixed on the mattress like it might crawl away on its own. I reached out and tentatively patted it. The padding was wafer-thin, the fabric worn to threads. It smelled faintly of mildew and ancient secrets. The very idea of lying on it made my stomach churn.
Scarlett caught my grimace.
“It stinks, doesn’t it?” she blurted. “Don’t worry—I got this fabric freshener!”
She zipped into the kitchen and returned with a small silver canister. The label read Wonder Spray, promising miracles it couldn’t possibly deliver.
She popped the lid and jabbed the white knob with the force of a battlefield command, and a deafeninghisserupted. A heavy, chemically sweet fragrance fog devoured the room like a dying floral beast. The scent clawed at my throat, a choking blend of cheap perfume and synthetic despair.
I coughed into my sleeve, recoiling. “Good lord, what have you done?”
“It’s a deodorizer,” Scarlett said proudly, fanning the air like she was taming a wildfire. “I think it smells better, don’t you?”
I moved away from the stench, muttering something unintelligible.
“Sit,” she chirped. “I’ll get us something to drink.”
As she darted back into the kitchenette with the Wonder Spray still clutched in her hand, I perched uneasily on the futon’s wooden arm. There was no way in hell I was lowering myself onto that cursed mattress.
My frustration boiled just beneath the surface, ready to erupt. I had come so close to Alina, yet every time I approached her, my body betrayed me. Pain like a thousand barbed needles pierced my veins, paralyzing me. That gray-eyed phantom from the campus… he had to be behind it. I didn’t know what he was, but his interference felt unnatural.
Scarlett returned, holding two frosty bottles. She shoved one into my hand with such enthusiasm that some liquid sloshed onto my skin. I downed half of it without a word. The bitterness was unfamiliar but welcome.
“I must find Alina,” I said, trying to calm my voice. “The truth is… I knew her parents. They died recently and left her a considerable inheritance. The government will seize it all if she doesn’t claim it soon.”
Scarlett’s eyes widened with sympathy. “That’s so sad. And fuck the government. Don’t worry, I’ll help you find her.”
She took a long gulp from her bottle, then glanced sideways at me with a mischievous grin. “You look tense, Balthazar. You need to let off some steam. What do you say we smoke a joint?”
“A… joint?”
“You know. Reefer. Weed. Mary Jane. The good shit.”
Before I could answer, she sprang to her feet and vanished into the other room. Moments later, she returned triumphantly, waving a small plastic bag filled with shriveled greenish leaves.
“This stuff is legit,” she said, eyes gleaming with pride. “Scored it from the same friend who gave me the futon.”
I stared at the crumpled leaves in silence, wondering if this was, perhaps, the final sign that the world had truly gone mad.
Without hesitation, Scarlett plopped onto the futon, grabbed a glossy magazine from the side table, and tapped out a mound of bright-green buds onto its cover. Her fingers worked deftly, tearing a strip of paper and tucking the crushed leaves inside, massaging it into an even roll. She twisted the ends, licked the seam, and struck a match.
The pungent scent hit me like a punch to the face—skunky, earthy, thick with something strange. It mixed with the lingering reek of that cursed floral spray, creating a vile aroma that could only exist in this bizarre century.
She inhaled, held it, then exhaled a lazy plume toward the ceiling. “Here you go,” she said, holding the joint out. “Have a hit.”
“No, thank you.” I waved it away like smoke from a battlefield fire and raised my ale. “I’m fine with this.”
“Suit yourself,” she said with a shrug, taking another pull. With a blissful sigh, she sank into the futon and set the joint in a chipped ashtray. Her eyes drifted shut briefly before she looked at me again, voice syrupy.
