They play for hours at
a time, their two guitars the warp and weft of the same fabric. They weave
minute variations on a single pattern, forgetting themselves in the trance of
detail. They spend days and nights in this way, almost wordless, signaling to each
other until their fingers bleed. When the pipes freeze, the toilet down the
hall won’t flush and so they piss in jars. When the water comes back on, they
leave the jars in the basin. Over time the basin fills up with cigarette butts
and the newspaper wrappings from food. Mick thinks about quitting,
concentrating on his economics course, but the more he has to sit and watch,
the more he needs to stay.
Italian suits and
Cuban-heeled shoes. White dress shirts with tab collars. Narrow black ties that
look even better when he lets the slack end dangle free of the clasp. These are
some of the clothes that Brian has managed to wangle out of his various
girlfriends, or to steal from his job at the department store in Bayswater.
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