(except for Buffy, Tuesday night ritual with Daphne, chips and Pepsi and occasionally something stronger, lounging first on her bed when we both lived with our parents, then in her cramped apartment with roomies blasting bad disco in the next room, debating Spike hotness vs. Angel hotness, good Willow vs. evil Willow, god I miss Daphne)

and I didn’t miss it. Dancing with Brian amongst the falling glitter of Babylon won out over CSI: New York every single fucking time.

I lean back against the stoop, stretching my legs as I take another pull on my cigarette. The summer heat is oppressive even at night, gumming my shirt to my skin. My neighbours' laughter drifts to me from across the street, briefly drowning out the sound of music from their TV

(Brian says he hates that movie, The Sound of Music, of course he’d hate it, all rainbows and innocence, but he’d slouch at the end of the sofa as I watched, he’d push up the rough material on my pants and long fingers would stroke my calf and when I’d steal a glance at him, his eyes would be locked on the screen and he’d be smiling)

and I can’t help but wonder what they’re watching, tinny music and earnest vocals. They’re so relaxed, sprawled on a couple of battered lawn chairs, one face just visible from inside the tiny balcony door, one large hand lazily fanning something - a piece of newspaper - in a half-hearted attempt to stir a breeze. They’re so relaxed and

(everything is a rush, work paint pound the pavement impress the gallery owners paint work slug dishes bus tables paint work sketch and I miss Brian, I miss Daphne, I miss my life, I don’t even know if I want to be here, sometimes it feels like I’ve forgotten how to dream)

I feel guilty even sitting here for ten minutes, fifteen, twenty, avoiding my crappy little third floor walk-up and the roaches skittering in the cupboards and the blank canvas that mocks me in the corner.

“Hey. Kid.”

I look up sharply to see a man standing on the second floor balcony, waving at me. His face is large and his smile is wide. It occurs to me that if I’ve been watching them for the last week, maybe they’ve been watching me too.

“You want a beer?”

(Brian’s hand is warm on the back of my neck. His forehead presses to mine. I haven’t started packing yet, don’t want to pack, don’t want to leave, and Brian’s eyes search mine, telling me without words that everything will be all right, that I’ll be all right, that I’m strong and capable and that there is nothing that I can’t handle)

I rise from the stoop and cross the street to meet my neighbours.