the pill in your hand is bright green. you don't know what you expected.

chew it, says the boy in the bob marley shirt. he flicks his cigarette, grinning. he's done this before. he gestures more than usual. chew it, but not all the way. it's going to taste bad. that's why you have the water. wash it down. it will taste awful. but you'll see.

you hesitate, but the boy to your left, the one who was your lover once, is already chewing his. pretty white rabbits. do you trust them? you have before.

you chew it. not all the way. yes, it tastes bad. it takes a full cup of water to wash it down, down but not away, that bittersour flavor clogging your throat, and now the minutes are counting down to whatever comes next.

-

and for a while, that's all it is: you move onto the couch, so the boy who was your lover is on your right now, curiouser and curiouser, you're sharing an ashtray and not looking at his hands. the other boy is on your left and talking faster. you hate bob marley, but the boy laughs when you look at him. it's laced with coke, he says, and that wasn't in the deal but there's no turning back now, eat me, and you did; but he's still talking, the coke just starts you feeling good. it's laced, but it's mostly mdma. the color was bright. it'll be a good trip. you'll see what i mean. it'll be good. i can feel it. i'm feeling it.

either the well is very deep, or you fall very slowly. this is how the time passes: he changes the song on the stereo. you light a cigarette of your own. you fill your cup with water. sip. one of your wouldbe rabbits passes you a joint. you reapply your lip gloss. bite your tongue. your hands get clammy and you slide them over your jeans.

pause.

repeat.

the next trip to the kitchen, you touch the wall. the counter. you play with the faucet and the water that gets neither noticeably hot nor cold. you count every slow step back across the carpet. someone's playing with the music again. you sink back onto the couch and the boy on the right's leg is touching yours. neither of you move. there's something starting to unravel in you, something that was coiled a minute ago and now is coming loose, and this is the calm before the storm.

i'm rolling, says the boy you've never loved. holy shit. i'm rolling.

you're about to laugh at him again when the music pauses, little gasp of silence, and then it hits. you're lucky. you already set your water down. it'd be a shame to spill it now.

-

ladies and gentlemen, please fasten your seatbelts. we are now painting these roses.

-

the music is yellow, and green, and pink, and you know this because it is splashing across your skin in tiny flutters of techno pulse and beat. boy on your right, your boy (because he is yours, you think, and to hell with letting go) wipes his palms on his sleeves, and you're jealous of the texture. for just a second you think about burying your hands in the thick charcoal sweatshirt, your hands and maybe your face, inhale cigarettes and cologne just to prove some things haven't changed. no; even that's an excuse. you just want to linger in the scent, if he'll let you.

doesn't matter. before you can move, or -- more likely -- dismiss the idea, he drops his hands again, and one settles at your knee. his thumb traces careless circles that leave you dizzy.

jack of hearts, you think wildly. suddenly you can believe the universe really might be held together by strings. pull release tighten cut.
the next song is orange. nothing ever ever rhymes with orange. and, what's this, little girl? you don't know when you started touching him back.

holy shit, mutters the other boy. you'd almost forgotten. you still might. you press your tongue to the roof of your mouth.
i must have changed many times since then, said alice. and will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance.

-

your fingers through his hair. again, he coaxes. again. until you're thinking you were mistaken, and now, now his cheshire is showing through. you find the warm place at the back of his neck that your fingernails remember so fondly. traitors. but he doesn't seem to mind, taps a light fizzing rhythm over your wrist, and you think you could pull your skin back to let him in. to let him touch your colors. even the scars only you remember have color. there's only this. there's only now.

your eyes scream neon.

where do you want to go, purrs the cat; he blazes back at you. all that music on your skin, it's boiling. maybe that's just his hands. he stops you midbreath.

strawberries, you think. you don't know why. the two of you tumble forward. his voice spills through you.

keep a secret, tell a lie.

his mouth is wet and soft and urgent.

strawberries.

summer.

you kiss and lick and nip and feed at him. your mouths buzz technicolor electric: every half-considered motion is a frenzy and oh you're in for it now, alice. your hands are cold. he leans back and gravity reasserts itself. almost.

how's that for a line, he says. is this what you imagined?

-

and: you drink a full cup of water to wash him down, down but not away. never away. his name clings to your tongue and hugs your hip bones.

you don't know what you expected.