Deceiving April ... continued

'To friendship', Frank enthused, and the other two men nodded. Once outside the club each man said a gruff 'Hooray' to one another, and then, as if to prove that there's only ever so much a man can learn of his mates (gentleman or thug) over a weekly pint, the four chaps ended their evening in the following ways:

• Bill Adams rolled a joint, once at home by himself. Lit it and placed a vinyl LP of George Benson Live at Carnegie Hall on his Marantz turntable. Kicked his shoes off, remained clothed, and nodded along to George Benson's fluid, warm guitar runs. His eyes closed softly to appreciate the effortless beauty of Hubert Laws' wonderful flute solo. They would only open once more that night, briefly, to re-carriage the needle.
  
  
• Frank returned to his modest family home, unbuttoned his shirt and pants, left the stained white singlet, paisley boxer shorts and gold-topped black socks on, before climbing into his shared bed. He leant over to his wife Cheryl, whispered that he loved her, kissed her sleeping cheek and shortly after joined her in feathered retreat.
  
  
• Michael Bates sat up late at he kitchen table of his broken home. Staring at the tessellations on the bright wallpaper, he remembered that April had not liked the pattern. He began the first of several unfinished, unsent letters. Stopping amidst tears, for the first time admitting to himself that she left him.
  
  
• Doug Sanders had taken a taxi to his mother's house -- where he slept in an outhouse, converted garage. Inside the kitchen he fumbled around and found the phone book and took that, a tall glass of water and the cordless phone out to his room. Thumbing blindly through the gray pages he eventually found the list of area codes. Dialed (07) -- closed the book, stabbed in the rest of the number from memory and had, before another sleepless night, the following half of a telephone conversation:

Hell, April? Yeah -- it's me. Hi. How are you? Yeah not bad, not bad. Yes I did. Tonight. Yeah, once a week. Yeah it's ok. No he doesn't know. No. Played it thick, yet again. Yes. Yes, I will. Okay, see you next weekend. Yeah, yeah, yes. Yes okay. Yes, - Me too!

Click

© 2000 Trout &
Simon Sweetman