‘So what am I?’
‘Some sort of alien.’ Charles brushes Loris’ knee below loose basketball shorts. ‘Did you change again?’
‘Yeah, after I worked out and showered.’
‘While I couldn’t watch? Rude. What else did I miss?’
‘A bit of progress on my glitch drawing, but now I’m considering restarting it from scratch. I’m gonna decide tomorrow, when I’m in a better artistic mood. I love your piece, by the way.’
Loris points at the pastel artwork propped against his TV.
It looks like Mark Rothko and Jackson Pollock collaborated on a project. Using their non-dominant hands. When they were four years old. And on drugs.
‘It’s a mess.’
‘But it tells your story. It’s important. Because I feel like you’re underrating your resilience.’
‘The Ledwell motto is that the best one can do is a must.’
‘And you stick by your family’s big principles? My bad. I probably misread the situation whenever you unbuttoned my jeans.’
Charles shoves a morsel of pizza into Loris’ mouth. ‘Shh. I’m barely functioning, I forbid you to make good points.’
Loris traps his forefinger between his front teeth, caressing it with the tip of his tongue, and Charles finds himself way more alert.
‘Hold that thought. I’m still hungry.’
‘Who’s rude, now?’
‘You’re a great snack, but you won’t keep me going until—’
Loris nudges him and reaches for a glass of water on the coffee table. Next to it, his laptop is on, displaying a folder of photos that look quite old.
‘What are those?’
‘Pictures my mum digitalised a few years back. My gran’s birthday is coming and she requested a drawing. I had no clue what to do, but now that I’ve seen my dad’s spot, it’s obvious. I’m gonna draw him under his tree. So I’m looking for a reference shot.’
Loris swaps the glass for the laptop and enlarges the photo of a young man posing outside a barber shop.
‘Damn! You’re like twins. Except he looks very English and you look super French.’ Charles sets the plate aside, gnawing at a piece of pizza crust. ‘Can you show me more?’
On most photos, James Robson is standing in front of facades that have long changed. Charles recognises every single spot anyway, and it doesn’t take long before a new notebook opens in his mind.
This slideshow is more than a perfect illustration of the diary. It could very well compose the fitting setting for his novel. He tried to move his story geographically but failed to let go of Hampstead. Perhaps the answer is to move it to the eighties. To dress his Fred in denim jackets and oversized t-shirts.
‘You’re still withme?’
‘Yes…’
‘Okay, good. I’ve got questions. Because I spent my workout thinking about your parents.’
‘Ugh. Why?’
Charles twists his waist to look at Loris, who tosses the laptop aside and loops an arm around him.
‘They’re a foreign concept to me. What’s their deal? What made them this way? I mean, if you’re okay talking about them…’
Charles would rather move on to having dessert in the form of Loris’ lips, shining from the water he drank. But it’s smarter to answer now, when his parents are already staining the aura of the flat.
