The woman likes to clean.

I mean, I clean my house when I have guests, but every time she would visit, she could go over what I did and get things cleaner. Everything. Like hand-scrubbing the bath­tub. Or wash­ing the glass light-fixtures. Or maybe even to going through my freezer to throw out old frost-burned food and odd-looking, pungent-smelling dried herbs with red hairs in them, kept in an air-tight alu­minum jar.

Herbs you could roll in cig­a­rette fash­ion and smoke to alter your mood and change your per­spec­tive. About $70–$80 worth, kept in three dif­fer­ent Ziploc bags, each with a dif­fer­ent strain that I could choose when I felt that my tol­er­ance to one was build­ing up.

There was hydro from BC I bought off Matt. Some that John got for me, with a funny story behind how he acquired it. Some I don’t even remem­ber who gave me.

I won­der what the expres­sion was on her face if she smelled it, or how she would react if she ever found out that I did such things. I doubt she even knew what it was.

It was prob­a­bly for the best. Even though I quit, I never threw it out.

I don’t think I could bring myself to do it.