The three of them draped around my lounge in various states of disrepair, two bottles of wine and three hourglass figures. I’m trying to teach them how to smoke, how to get high really, all of them failing with saccharine adolescent resilience. Sarah pulls out the Velvet Underground and holds it up like a boxing ring round girl. Maybe when you’re older, I tell her, and she pouts, puts the record back and continues not to care. The other two tangle on the couch, blowing full-stop smoke rings at each other, laughing the way rain feels in summer.