On a Scale of One to Ten

The two girls had been drinking since three, a swig for every crash of the river. The Golden Virginia they were smoking like shrivelled worms falling out of rolling paper. They tried to blow rings in the sticky air.
Failing.
Giggling.
Heads spinning. Could be the alcohol, could be the heat.
Now it was late, and the sky was pale pink, like the smooth inside of a conch. Cans of cider glinted in the grass and trees flopped like vast ivory wigs, heavy from the weeks of rain. Henna patterned the girls’ bare arms, a memory of windswept festivals bleeding colour