The tall lean - jawed man in the tuxedo smiles handsomely to himself and walks coolly towards her. Her back is turned as she stares through the window out across the well lit city. Her reflected image is superimposed over the skyscrapers. He gently spins her around and touches her face. She meets his gaze with wide eyes filled with passion and fear. He clasps her face with both hands and pulls her to his lips. She resists slightly before crushing her lips onto his, submitting entirely to the throes of passion. They embrace deeply. "Don't, DON'T" she shouts. He pulls away, shocked and disappointed, I'm sorry", he says, palms outspread, "I..." She pulls him towards her and purrs, "Don't.... stop, I meant"
Billy flipped the channel over to Rage and Nick Birdwitt lead singer/guitarist with Hacker snorted;
come your eyes are so red ?
of manure.", Billy said and zapped Nick in the act of sexual innuendo
with a mike stand, replacing him with pictures of Russian tanks and exiled
peasants in koshered colours. He watched for a moment-all shawls and sad
eyes, forced pilgrimages through mud and snow, the dull dramatic commentary-clichéd
you been at that glue again?
you there?" "It's me, Jenny" "Billy...?" He drags
himself off the sofa and opens the door, remote still in hand. "
Hi Billy" she beams, as a gust of cold air blows in from outside.
"I brought back your CD's." "Um, thanks", he mutters,
"It could have waited, I forgot about all about them anyway."
She smiled at him, her face half concealed in shadow. "Well, aren't
you going to invite me in?", she says, shivering as much for effect,
as from being cold. Without waiting for a reply she pushed past him into
the untidy living room, set the CD's on the sideboard and took off her
coat. "What are you watching?" "Eh nothing much",
he mumbles and plunges back on to the beat-up sofa. Nick Birdwitt was
jumping up and down on a staged battlefield of smoke bombs and coloured
green, electric blue,
any tea Billy"? "Nah, only caffeine and I'm out of milk",
he replies. She strides confidently into the kitchen and starts rattling
about in the cupboards looking for clean cups. Billy can hear her humming
and filling the kettle. "Billy, you want a coffee?" "Uh,
bring us a beer.", he grunts and flicks over to channel ten.
blades and cigarettes,
on the arm of the sofa next to his feet. Billy, ignoring her, switches
back to the romance on nine... "I will always love you Angela, no-matter
where you are in the world." They turn and kiss- two lovers entwined-
black and white silhouettes against a wild moonlit ocean. The music rises
to a crescendo. Flick!, and Nick Birdwitt, covered in sweat, heroically
finishes a disgusting guitar solo before staggering up to the mike,
mother says he's such a nice boy,
are you blind or something?", she says good humouredly. He loses
concentration and stares at her with a vague half knowing surprise. "Whaddaya
mean?" he slurs, staring back at the telly. Nick Birdwitt concludes
by doing an impression of a windmill with his guitar and the crowd goes
wild. The wildness continues as he violently launches into 'Spurred Sleech.'
"C'mon Billy, how obvious does it have to be?" "I have
been coming over here on any bloody excuse-doing your dishes, tidying
this dump up, helping you look for jobs out of the paper and all you do
is lie in front of the box and switch channels. Surely, it doesn't take
a genius to realise that I'm up to something." "Like what ?"
Billy replies, feigning ignorance. "Well", she smiles, "Guess,
dummy?" Billy sits up, scratches his head and looks at her. "You
like me.?", he offers, knowing full well this was a ridiculous understatement.
"I love you ", she strains between clenched teeth, throwing
her hands in the air and rolling her eyes back in mock exasperation. "Love
me?" he answers timidly. "Yes you idiot, love you." Jenny
could see that made Billy uncomfortable as she watched him drag his hand
through his hair, as if suddenly realising he was on camera. She stood
up abruptly dipping into her handbag and pulled out her lipstick. "Well,
Billy..", her tone had suddenly changed--cooler, more businesslike,
"To coin a well trodden old phrase--.the ball's in your court."
She moved towards the TV, stooped in front of it, and with her lipstick,
she plastered her phone number in crude characters across the screen.
She stood up, dropped the lipstick confidently into the shoulder bag,
smiled, and spun towards the door, "You've got one week to get it
together bud.", she said, and left.