“Oh, umm…” Alex held up his glass. “You’re not having more?”
“There’s no more to have. Also, you’re dodging the question. Did you talk to that boy or not?”
“I did. We did. Talk, that is, with Jago.”
“What?”
“His name. His name’s Jago.”
“I heard you.Like Othello?” Vicente put out his cigarette in a brown glass ashtray on the table.
“No,E-yay-go, notEe-ah-go. Look, it doesn’t matter.”
“And what did you and Jago talk about?”
A cool pre-dawn breeze from the open window of their apartment stirred Alex from his exhaustion. In truth, he’d paid less attention to Jago’s words than to his tone, his lips, and the playful cadence of his voice, at least until the deadly seriousness of that last statement.
Everyone. Knows. Blood. Wedding.Man, Alex thought, chill out.
“The movie,” he murmured at last. “He liked it.”
Joanna winced as the first rays of dawn warmed the windows. “If you say so. I’m going to bed.”
Vicente caught her hand as she rose from the couch. “I’ll be there soon.”
“Nonsense. You’re wired,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. She reached a playful hand inside his shirt to brush his chest, then turned to Alex. “Stay as long as you like, darling. Our couch is yours.”
“Thanks,” Alex lifted his glass again, as if Joanna had not made this exact offer after a dozen drunken nights before. She was gone before he could say goodnight.
Vicente undid another button on his shirt and slumped further into the couch. “We never go out dancing anymore.”
“Sorry?”
“I just mean…” Vicente leaned forward, fingers cradling the glass until he downed the last of his vermouth and set it down on the stained coffee table.
Alex always thought it was curious Vicente and Joanna could afford a one-bedroom apartment with its own bathroom andkitchen this close to Gran Via, while luxuries like ice, spare liquor and well-kept furniture seemed to elude them. Not that he could criticise from his tiny studio, where on a clear night, one could hear the sound of scooters carrying customers in need of a fix roaring into Plaza de Chueca, until the disco beats from Black and White drowned them out.
Alex started as Vicente patted the couch where Joanna had been. His face darkened.
“Sorry,” they both said at once. Vicente grinned as Alex accepted his invitation, not just to the opposite couch, but to lay his head in Vicente’s lap, as they’d done countless times before.
Vicente brushed a wayward lock of Alex’s fringe off his face. “You’re worried about the play?”
Alex gave as close to a shrug as he was able, lying down. “I suppose? We don’t have long.”
“We’ve got long enough. Relax. You’re good at this, you know?”
“Doyouknow?” Alex laughed. “It’s my first play.”
“Shhhh. Don’t wake Joanna.”
“Joanna never wakes up.”
This much was true. Once Joanna crashed in the early hours, there would be no return until sunset. In fact, Alex seldom remembered seeing her in daylight, and on the two occasions he had, she’d dressed top to toe in black like a mourning widow during Holy Week.
“So, what did you think of this guy?” Vicente said, casually draping an arm over Alex’s chest. “I’m exercising ex-boyfriend privilege here. Tell me everything.”
Alex wrapped both hands around Vicente’s forearm, pushing his fingers through the blanket of light hairs that covered it. The scent of Vicente’s cigarette burned his nose. “How do you want me to answer that? We had one conversation. He left. I don’t think he likes me much.”
