I'm sitting in what I assume is my parents' living room. This is an assumption because I have yet to see them in this age. I am listening to 'Belle & Sebastian' for the umpteenth time tonight. There is a half empty glass of tequila on the arm of the sofa and a half full bottle on the floor by an open copy of 'The Sun Also Rises'. I like to think that I could be as popular as Belle but know that really I am destined always to be Sebastian; that Belle can be no-one but Jo. Tears well in my eyes and I thumb the scrap of paper that has Jo's address and 'phone number scrawled on it. I have meant to send flowers to the address for three months and have meant to 'phone for the six I have been here and known her face. Yet somehow I know that no action will ever be taken, that the moment was lost when the realisation that all my waking thoughts were filled with Jo washed over me like a Spring tide of dazed and confused emotions.
I don't know why I go down the club anymore. I suppose just because it's a place to escape the prying questions and wary looks of what appear to be my peers. In the club I just stand behind a column that is at the edge of the dance floor. No-one is dancing, but then it is still early and besides, no-one seems to really care about dancing. It's not a club where the number of people dancing is an indication of success or failure. The sound of conversation seems almost as loud as the music, and I smile at this. Eventually I go over to the bar and ask the apathetic barman for a drink. I drink Tequila because it is the only thing that is capable of making Jo's face disappear from my mind these days.
I keep thinking that Jo might actually come along tonight, that she might deign to show her face in this place that is so far outside of her fashionable orbit. I picture her smiling in her youthful dark innocence.
[sneakers]
Jo is wearing sneakers for once and looks strangely short. She walks up to me, half slumped at a table by a standard lamp and kisses me softly on the lips. I'm still trying to focus my attention on the vision when I hear the voice whisper in my ear, the breath like the lingering goodbye of a lost lover. It says 'you'll never be an angel'.
When I have blinked away the tears I see only the projection of a 1970's kitchen, misting through the smoke. I order another tequila and walk home in the May rain.