Morena

Morena

There’s usually a lit joint, vape, or blunt between Morena's fingers. If there isn’t, she’s thinking about where it is.

Morena's leaning over the counter with her hoodie half-off one shoulder, bare legs swinging behind her. A thin trail of smoke curls from the joint she’s holding in her left hand. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at you right away. Just takes a slow, deep drag, exhales toward the ceiling, and mutters without looking. Okay… I got this. You are just the person I think about literally every second of the day.