Deep Breaths

The disappearance of time is not an uncommon experience if you happen to be stoned a lot. With Sofia time disappeared a lot. Time sometimes reappeared during the working day but it was diluted, only semi-real. The rough edges of the day were smoothed out. Daylight appeared through a Vaseline coated lens and everything slowed down a click.

We would work during the day in separate offices in the same building, contacting each other frequently by instant message. Work was just something to be endured until 5 p.m. arrived. Then she would appear at the door of my office and motion that it was time to go and I would dutifully trot after her.

As I climbed into the passenger seat of her car, she would turn on the car heater and light a cigarette. In the 20 minute journey home we would talk about the day we had both had. Meaningless talk about work colleagues, people that really didn't matter to me or to her. The warmth of the car, the familiarity of Sofia's voice and the music she would play on the car stereo would relax me and I would feel safe. Whether I knew it or not, I was, for the first time in a very long time, happy, or content. I wasn't sure which, but it felt good enough not to question.

It was winter when I lived with Sofia, so it was always dark on the journey home. We would drive down dark country lanes and roads until we reached the lights of her town because even though we lived together as housemates, it was her town, not mine. It wasn't a town I felt safe in, I felt safer in London than Luton.