9.

Later that night they sat up sharing a joint. They smoked a joint now and then instead of bongs, just for the pleasing cigarette aesthetic of it, and Alex rolled great two-paper honkers.

“When I was a kid,” said Marty. “When I was a kid I used to try to find mathematical paradoxes.” Alex, stoned, let him talk on and on, as he silently listened. “You know, I’d multiply thirteen times four, then see if it were a different number than ten times four plus three times four. I’d multiply seven times six, then see if I could come up with another answer when I took seven times two plus seven times four. They say . . . they say there are paradoxes, mathematical paradoxes like that, but I’ve never found one myself. I guess I heard somewhere about mathematical paradoxes and wanted to discover one. But I never found one. I started to think that maybe this world makes sense after all. You know--I didn’t want it to make sense. I wanted magic in the world, I wanted logic to be violated. A world that makes perfect sense? That’s boring, fucking sober shit. You know, children want to fly like Peter Pan. When we want magic, miracles; all it means is we want it all not to make any sense after all. But fuck it. It does make sense. It’s all logical. No magic anywhere. I wish I could find a paradox in something. Then maybe there’d be hope.”

He turned to look at Alex, and saw that he was leaning his head into the back of the couch with his eyes shut.

“Are you asleep?” said Marty. Alex didn’t reply. His breath was slow, his body perfectly relaxed.

Marty hit the roach in his hand one more time then stubbed it out and set it by the ashtray.