At an after party, clad in a pair of fitted denim- Japanese, raw and selvage with a tapered leg – whose folded cuffs augment his swagger. Finished with mother of pearl buttons, the grid-check shirt is expertly crafted; it also features a single chest pocket and a curved hem. Although the maroon cardigan was procured from a vintage store in Detroit, it was knitted in Scotland and is a lesson in luxury. And shoes are a modern interpretation of standard issue military boots worn during WWII. They’re made of hard-wearing leather that was chrome-tanned in Chicago.
Sat in a wooden chair to whose shape his body conforms, he is staring at the screen of a laptop. Specifically a BBC article about the battle in Tripoli. Eyes are dreary, heart is beating slowly, stomach is cramping and the back is slightly hunched. And down below, legs are crossing at the ankles but not the knees. Drinking? Yes. Drunk? No. Aloof? Maybe.
No brassiere, so the shape of her nipples is helplessly poking out of her t-shirt. And the three-quarter sleeves and bateau neckline reveal her fabulous bones. The pants- mid-rise, skinny, organic, jeans whose brown label reads, “Good Society” below an etched impression of two identical fern branches- accentuate her ample behind ever so subtly. She doesn’t have with her, her warm quilt-herringbone outer and polyester filling-jacket from the good folks at Barbour. Said jacket once belonged to her father. Between her and the ground are a pair leather wellies, bench-made in Northampton.
Stood in the middle of the room, around her are well-read and strongly-built cunt hounds. And she smells of beeswax and lavender. Her moves are genteel, and rhythm sinuous. She punctuates their failed attempts at banal witticisms with a smile.
With time, as their patience wears out, the crowd dwindles into the putative marijuana smokers only. The host decides it’s time and signals him to lead, for access to marijuana can lead to a heightened social status. The group arrive at the gazebo. He sits down first, pioneering a crooked circle of late night/early morning pot smokers. She, being the end of the line, is seated next to him. It is purely coincidental.
She tries to strike up a conversation about music and determines that they are musically-incompatible. Then she complements his sweater. “You can wear it, but you can’t have it” is his passive retort. “Alright!” she says. She learns that he uses the same aftershave as her father. After a while, after hearing him shiver, she returns it.
The group smokes two blunts, one right after the other. Everyone is familiar with the proper decorum, “Puff, puff and pass to the left”. After finishing, they leave like they came. Only this time, our two protagonists are the first pair but only until they arrive at a fork in the pavement. Then he peters out of the human-glacier.
With their backs turned to each other, they both walk with the same contemplative gait while staring at the moon. She, the moon, is full now but will start waning soon. She, the lady, is looking forward to going to the bathroom and then to her room. Time to empty the moon cup and get some rest, for today is going to be a long day.