After an Ana-ordered midnight shower in the previously-unknown upstairs bathroom, I was exhausted, and sat down on the couch, opposite the strung-out pair of Ray and Sky, who were watching _Rebel Without A Cause_ with constricted pupils and half-closed eyelids.

I watched the movie sleepily, braiding back my damp hair, while James Dean acted all angsty and smoked cigarettes and stuff.

People staggered up and down the stairs, drunk in the early hours of Sunday morning. Doors slammed shut and then, twenty minutes later, they’d swing open with a creak and more drunks would tumble down the stairs.

Wyatt came swaying into the living room, crashing into the couch beside me with an incomprehensible, drunken shriek.

“Your liver must be _shot_, man…” I heard Sky mutter to Wyatt, his slurred voice bitter. “…Jesus Christ…”

“At least my veins are clean…” Wyatt’s voice was muffled as his face was buried in a cushion. “And don’t call me a hypocrite…”

I pretended to not hear them, watching the TV intensely, until Wyatt grabbed my hand and whispered hoarsely, “Layne? Layne?”

I turned my head to look at him, and right away, he kissed me, winding his arms around me. My thoughts were screaming right along with my heart- I was too sober, and my mind was shrieking, _not here, not now, oh no!_

__

Fearful, I forcibly yanked my tongue out of his mouth and murmured, “Uh, do you think we can smoke a joint?”

“Oh, sure.” But he was stupid drunk so I took his pot and smoked two joints on the small fire escape balcony by myself, then crawled after him into his room, again, and took off my shirt.