London. The City of Wonders.
Busy, busy, busy city with people taking metros and speaking with British accents.
If you peered at it from afar, you wouldn't see The Flat.
It was situated where the city lights showed the brightest white. On the last level of a tall building with an even roof.
A boy and a girl lived there.
They had planned it ages ago, it seemed. Dreams are always too far.
The boy had just wanted to get away from where he was and the girl had been afraid.
But now, they were there and it felt like perfection.
The flat was small but adorable.
The girl had hung Christmas lights everywhere and the shadows of lighted candles danced against the walls. She had put ashtrays all over the place and left alcohol-filled glasses lying on the floor, on the chairs, on the low table. They were the triangular shaped ones, with long feet. The girl loved those glasses, she drank everything in them.
The boy had come with a truck full of instruments and guitars, amplifiers and synthesizers stood wherever there was any place. A beautiful organ was pushed on the side of the room and it surveyed the messy scene with serenity.
There also was a drum set because the girl had decided to learn how to play. Sometimes, she would pick up a guitar and play the few chords she knew but immediately after, she would put it back in its place and laugh. The laughter almost became tears when she tried to sing, her lips whispering to the microphone.
It hadn't been easy to find money. Their parents sometimes sent some on the way –they were still young after all!- but they had to earn the bill of freedom.
The boy had found a place in a piano bar where he gently stroked the black and white keys or strummed pensively on his guitar. He sang with a sometimes broken voice but it was deep and tender, very beautiful.
The girl had managed to creep by the backdoor and secured herself a spot as barmaid. The job was pleasant enough and she learned a lot of new cocktails. Not to mention she got to listen to the boy playing all night long.
The night life suited them and they adored going to bed when everyone else was getting up to go to their monotonous work. People by night are what they really are and the world is differently mesmerizing when the stars have been hung on the electric telephone wires.
After work, they would take a cab or walked when it rained. Contradictions don't exist when Time doesn't matter. They were their own gods.
Most of their nights ended –or their mornings began?- with drugs and alcohol.
The boy didn't like the idea of pot and preferred more refined substances such as blow. He drank a lot of red wine and always had his vodka pure and clear.
The girl occasionally dipped into psychedelic drugs but stayed true to her weed. She made new cocktails every night and poured what tasted horrid by the window, on the early passer-by's. A new kind of spiritual rain.
And of course, numerous cigarettes. There is no such thing as too many cigarettes.
After some sleep –conveniently, they were both insomniacs- they would be up and about again.
The boy would make the girl a cup of tea and she would make him strong coffee with the coffee maker she had bought him as a house-warming present. As his gift, he had started recording an album for her.
Slipping cubes of brown sugar in the liquid and a kiss on his cheek was her way of saying hello when she was hung-over.
Afternoons were spent accordingly to their wishes.
The boy often composed new songs and lyrics. The girl would hush the stereo with the excuse of being respectful but all she wanted was to hear him. She let her door ajar to let the music filter in or sat against the wall opposite of the boy. She then would scribble millions of words in her old notebook or type away endless stories. Sometimes, she tried to draw him but it always came out wrong.
So she made more tea and more coffee and ate buttered toast to concentrate.
The boy was one of those 'pretty boys'. He had an air about him that made you want to stare and stare again. He liked to dress classy and his thin neck encircled by a skinny tie rose from his white shirt like a flower. He was thin and had pretty features sketched on pale skin. He said he was a mesomorph but willed to be an ectomorph so he barely ate.
The girl tried to make him hungry by cooking marvellous meals but they often landed on the doormat of the lonely man downstairs. It didn't matter much, the girl didn't want to change who he was even though she would like him to admit he was beautiful.
Whenever she told him so, he would dubiously 'tut' with his mouth and blush, saying he wasn't pretty like a sun child. And the girl would laugh.
- Always and forever. Like a promise always kept.
And he would smile and accept for a split second.
Each time they opened a door or a window, hundreds of music sheets and novel pages were swept up in a whirlwind of black and white.
The girl would let out a shriek and run in the staircase to catch them. The boy would shrug and shake his head.
- It was rubbish anyway, don't fret.
And the girl would stare daggers at him while smoothing the crumpled pages with her hand. She then would peer down and the paper would just say 'I love you I love you I love you, you k-k-k-kill me' with F minor, G, E, G melodic minor, F written over the words. So she'd beg the boy to play the song then be in awe and tell him to play it at the piano bar. The boy would consider it with a critical air and sometimes, he would do so.
Now and then, the boy was sick of music and wanted to do something else. He had placed canvases around the place and would paint when he felt inspired.
It happened that the girl stole some from him and he would get mad at her. He'd call her a thief for about twenty minutes then laugh.
She then would smile sheepishly and offer him a cigarette as a peace offering. The boy would accept and they'd go up on the roof to smoke with the stars and the moon.
On their days off, they sometimes stayed in and watched movies all night.
The boy would cry on the girl's shoulder each time they saw 'The Pianist' and the girl shuddered and grew silent after each 'Requiem For A Dream' replay.
They would discuss about how they both thought Tom Cruise and Kevin Bacon as ugly as sin and how perfectly hot Conor Oberst was.
And they would listen to music, sipping alcohol and smoking cigarettes.
Cigarettes always made the boy think of glamour and Helena Bonham Carter. The girl had argued about her not feeling glamorous when she smoked.
- Oh, you're pretty glam. More cute glam though but I could make you glam. You're not using that natural black hair to your advantage too much, baby. I think you need a Rei Ayanami cut. Some eyeliner, lipstick, puurrr.
The girl would laugh and tell him to make her pretty. So he'd trim her hair like he did to his own to look like a model and applied eyeliner on her eyes as she couldn't do it herself. He then would put some on too and flash a pretty boy look at her.
- Maybe I look desperate, the girl would wonder, thinking of strange stares.
- No, you look cute. Pretty. Hot.
- All at the same time?
- You're incredible.
- Because you just make me want to believe you. And I sometimes do.
He was quite the ladies' man. Girls called all night and all day for him and from anywhere in the world. It became natural that he answered to the phone every time because no one ever called the girl and she hated to reply anyway. When he was out, she gladly did secretary but otherwise, she hardly touched the phone.
As much as the boy was an aspiring musician, the girl was an aspiring writer. She inked hundreds and millions of sheets with letters, frowning in frustration when a sentence refused to come out correctly. The boy liked what she wrote.
- It gives you a light feeling in your chest just like your first dance.
At times, the girl would fidget and feel impatient. It seemed like she didn't have any emotions anymore. But the boy said she wrote, so she felt.
And she clung to her writing even more.
She sketched words all over papers and pinned them on the wall under their correct category. 'Anger', 'Sadness', 'Wistfulness', 'Gladness', etc. Her walls were two times thicker because of all the layers. She had an entire forest hanging there.
The girl thought the boy beautiful with his aerosol and he thought her hot with her glasses. Such tiny accessories but you can sometimes miss the bigger picture and admire details. The girl had abandoned her unfeminine look but continued safety pinning and stapling her clothes when they ripped. The boy had always wore smart things and looked good in everything.
Sometimes, they dressed up to feel pretty and took a walk outside, attracting stares and faces to them. They just were classily trashy and looked good that way.
And so they lived, communising with the night life and the other's odds and whims. Blocking out people when they got annoying. And living in skies you can't even start imagining.