The acrid odor of an entire four ounces wafts to her nostrils and rests on her
lips. She swallows several times, forces back a shudder, and rushes down the
glass of water.
Half an hour later, slight nausea stands in the background. Thickness reigns,
lending grace to all motion. She is viscuous; she tries to walk, but can only
swim. Her depth perception, skewed, swings mightily from fish-eye distortion to
precipitous fear. In this dimension, slight physical motions, even awkward ones,
have lift and finesse; walking becomes maneouvering; crossing the room becomes
a graceful plunge and swim.
She and her companion float through the room. The third roommate flits swiftly
among the two swimming ones, without disturbing their grace, though it was
surely not evident to him. Laughter eases the nausea. She holds the tube to her
lips, breathes, and retreats, drunken with the slower pace and smoother motion
of time. Smoke flows elegantly into her lungs. Down, dip, up, back.
Down again,
dip, up, back. She looks across, and swings back her head. Her smile, slow in
coming, arches from way back and emerges, all shiny and smooth.
They return to the floor, thick but clear.
