The question was often whether to sleep or to settle down on a third chair with that pair, reeled in by their imploring of me to have just one bong.
“Just have one,” Roland would propose, his tone inviting and fatherly, as though he were encouraging me to taste a novel but ugly confection.
“You could have at least one,” Steve would tell me, as though he were inviting me to purchase a discounted sweet from a charity.
“You’ll feel better after one,” Roland would add, as though my resistance were a sign of recalcitrance rather than prudence.
“This one’s yours,” Steve would tell me, proceeding to pack the cone with the mull of the moment.
“Have this one, and then if you decide you don’t want another one you will know that you really don’t,” Roland would advise me. “You’ll be in a better place to make a decision.”
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