“Are you high, Wes Bennett?”
"I'll answer that if you answer this: Were you playing Beyoncé on the piano last night?"
Her green eyes went wide, and her mouth dropped open. "You heard me?"
"The windows were open," I said, shrugging like it was the first time I'd ever heard her, "and I was having a smoke out back. So was it 'Halo'?"
"You smoke?" She was looking at me like I was a puzzle, like she couldn't figure me out.
"No. Was it?"
The crinkle in her forehead grew somehow. "Yes. So ... do you or don't you?"
"Like Beyonce? Fucking love her."
She rolled her eyes. "Why do I even bother trying to have a conversation with you?"
"Because you're fascinated and want to know more."
She snorted.
"Because you find me wildly attractive and need some insight into my soul?"
"Try again."
"Because you want to reconcile the data you've entered into your diary about me with the real-life, actual facts?"
"So you are high.”
―
Lynn Painter,
Better Than Before