the house was trashy, Diego's dad passed out on the couch, beer belly, beer in hand, dripping on the dirty carpet. you could smell it. the weed coming from the upstairs- Diego's room. you know the drill. stepping over beer bottles, soda cans, pizza boxes with flies circling them. you make your way up the creaking stairs. you push his bedroom door open. his room is nice. not trashy like the rest, but definitely not clean as it could. he's lazily laying on his bed, smoking from the rolled up weed pipe. he's always handled weed well, never getting to high. he's shirtless and in sweatpants. he just looks over at you, not saying a word