This second coffee is halfway down, as is the crafted cone of bliss slowly smoldering in his left hand.
Deep breath in, little cloud out, and imbibe each puff of the very last crumbs of green in the house. The impending banality, marveling at that thick cloud of pot smoke, collapsing on itself so quickly, as exhaled. Coating our blooming kitchen in that giveaway stink.
Panic is ebbing again… he enjoys several, deep, tokes.
It stank so good until, as happens now, it gets extinguished. The final flutter of ash on the little sink. Then the roach, rancid with regret, is quenched and then commonly tossed out of the window.
This then is when Harry found life returning to his earth.
The three ominous orbs, lined up outside the kitchen window, got noticed at the same time as the crash of his reverie getting smashed in to a temporarily crinkled mass of shock and awe!
The kids screamed.
The kitchen door disintergrated.
And Harry ran the cold tap, to flush his ash…