“Hi, Jamie.” And he smiles and I always see him smoking in my head or both of us sitting on the stairs, not saying anything, sometimes I tap a tune with my fingers, sometimes he does.

“Hi, Brian.” I mimic and that’s it.

That’s where all our conversations went.

Besides a few times, when he asked me what I thought of such and such author or poet. Once he bragged about The Pixies and Sonic Youth, while chewing on an unlit cigarette, the wind playing with the hair, stealing the red lips for itself. Brian keeps talking about how complicated to apply nail varnish is and I try to point out the red in his hairs and in the end my fingers are entangled in the red of his and my fingers contain it as a sin and his hair is black again and his accent enchants London.

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