{M} - tem[p]les made out of paper.

Barrett · 06-09-2011, 08:15 PM

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I hope the move went smoothly Big Grin

Barrett, too, had noticed the instantaneous familiarity this drug could afford strangers. It was one of several reasons why marijuana would always be his favourite. It never seemed to spawn brawls from drunken misunderstandings as alcohol might; it wouldn't completely flat-line someone's personality like opium. While it was difficult to say which preceded the other—that is, if it was the property of the drug itself, or just in the nature of those souls drawn to it in the first place—there was something undeniable about that simple, good-will gesture of sharing a toke with somebody new.

And so, he found himself quite relaxed in her presence. (Not that he was usually uncomfortable around others—he wouldn't linger in the company of individuals who left him ill at ease any longer than necessary.) The mocha yearling was further pleased that his guest seemed to be enjoying herself, and with no conscious effort on his part, he found an equally silly grin spreading across his face to mirror her own. At her prediction of a bountiful harvest he nodded with optimism and concurrence. Anselm had a bad habit of embellishing the truth, but Barrett believed him when he said business and production had once been prosperous.

He perked up at the mention of more poppies and though he said nothing outright, it was clear the gears inside his head were turning. He took one final hit before flicking the spent joint off to the side. “Hmm, well if you've any seeds to spare I'm sure we could work something out. I could even hit you back with more from the next gen after they flower,” he explained, before jumping to the next subject. “But I'm a trader, yuh, more of a side job I guess. Not that I don't have a fun time with it, get to meet some really lovely people.” It was a little bold, a little flirtatious—but there was no use denying the interest the young woman had already sensed anyway.

As they made their way around back, he pointed at a small cluster of the budding flowers and stated: “Those're all I've got at the moment.” The pot plants, meanwhile, had spread to encompass nearly a quarter acre. The loamy scent of earth was still noticeable from his digging and weeding earlier in the morning. “Got what we just smoked off'a those,” was all he said, figuring the rest was self-explanatory. If she wanted to take a closer look she was most welcome to, and he waited before moving on to the final point of interest.

He peeled back the entrance flap of the greenhouse so they could peer around, but didn't bother to step inside. All of the plants were dead and brown from neglect. “Gonna rig up an irrigation system so this won't happen again,” he muttered, as much to himself as anything. He didn't really want to get into the circumstances behind the situation, and so he shrugged in dismissal of the topic before turning back to the garage. He counted out sixteen screws and gently handed them to her in silent thanks—they would be easier to keep track of if she held them—and rooted around in his tool chest for a hammer, a screwdriver, and a pair of bolt cutters.

“So what do you do?” he wondered, peering over to her as they returned to their original starting point.

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