Second time by Ramona Brad (readict .txt) 📖

Harry said there was no need to set it up, he worked in an electrical shop and could manage but by then the man was on all fours laying cable and squatting to demonstrate the various sound options.
    
     ‘Hall. Live. Rock. You name it. Orchestral.' He waved the remote like a baton. He talked as if he lived here and Barry was the visitor.
    
     Wasn't it good now though to hear Hendrix as he'd never heard him, from five speakers. The lazy guitar of Hey Joe. He lay back on the sofa and dropped through to other sofas and rooms he'd lain in and been at ease. Way back on the green settee with Nina, his girlfriend for two months, when her parents were out. Parties where everybody reclined on scatter cushions, conversation limited by the bass heavy reggae and not much dancing either, you had to be cool, only getting up to kneel over the huge bong when it came round. At weekends there was sometimes dancing, after acid or mescaline in pills or on blotting paper. He remembered tripping on the flare of his loons (which had to touch the floor) and making it into a dance move. Girls had whirled skirt and hair out in circles to Zep or Cream or Caravan; and later under stairs or in bathrooms he got handfuls of tit and tastes of them.

     The re-grouping in pubs and coffees the following weekend, pubs closed at 2pm, to discuss what happened after, how they got home in such a state, breathless and dodging skinheads. How they had outwitted drunken lungs, and negotiated dangerous roads where cars were out to eat you. How this one spent the night in the brand new toilets of the motorway service station – ‘excellent facilities', and that one was nearly fucked by a donkey when he slept in a barn; how all somehow had seen the sun rise from the side of a road or under a hedge, the fields and back lanes, the edge of town of his youth.
    
     When Harry and Tom moved in together, they tried to get more sophisticated: instead of getting out of their heads immediately they would have dinner parties with candles, meals of nut roast and sweet potatoes and play Dylan and Roxy Music .
    
     He remembered Tom's fads, how she grew out of fringed leather jackets and boots quickly, on to the multi-coloured waistcoats. When she only wore that. How she got into Greek food when the restaurant opened in town; the stray cats she fed out the back; her languor on Sundays lying the length of the sofa, like him now, bringing her chocolates and drinks and rewarded with sex.
    
    
    
     He lay on turf with dripping water nearby and a hidden but throbbing power station, the leaning tower of Nina helped him with his tea.
    
     The doorbell rang a second time and it was Dan. He was panting from the bike ride across town and pushed his vehicle in straight through to the kitchen.

     ‘Didn't know if you'd be in.'
    
     ‘Coffee? Bong? Pills?'
    
*

‘
    
     ‘People on top of the world,' said Dan, ‘how do they keep their balance?' Then he stopped to lift and blow into an imaginary saxophone as Mirror in the Bathroom broke out; nodding in praise of the new system.
    
     They tried to make packet soup but ended up eating rubble with gulps of warm water. Luckily there was a lot of chocolate.
    
     ‘You prepared well, captain,' said Tom, eyeing bars in the fridge, and turned to salute him.
    
    
    
     They bumped into each other on the stairs. They talked as if they'd met in the countryside, on the stairs there, as if wind was ruffling their hair and they had ruddy complexions.
    
     Finally Harry bundled him out, bike and all, both vowing they would grow up soon, glancing up and down a street that seemed to come out of fog and concertina in and out around him, for the next interruption. The second phase of the drug was settling in, one that went right to his extremities, and he wanted to wank, wank

Maxine. She walked in as if out of a cubist painting both eyes on the same side of her angular face, which was wrong because if Maxine was known for anything it was the roundness of her face. He couldn't be sure it was her who he'd been picturing so recently. A voice came from her that was the same, similar, but he couldn't place the tone or manner, even the accent.
    
     ‘OK, OK,' he heard himself say to himself and turned away from her dark maroon patterned clothes with yellow buttons like beams of light, torches into his room. First time he'd seen her she was in a yellow top, blouse with wide cuffs, some kind of matching hair band too, in the days when those things were worn.
    
     He sat opposite her and momentarily his back slipped into place so that the pain he'd been experiencing, even through the drugs, seemed turned off. The room stopped tilting. Maxine's presence seemed to tighten the paintings above her, colors began to brim, the carpet seemed to breathe too, beneath its crust of dust, as if someone had finally cleaned it properly now she ran her eyes over it and around the crowded, smoky room. Each object she looked at sprang to attention.
    
     ‘Good sound system.'
    
     ‘Came today.'
    
     She had long curtains of hair then, everyone did, John Lennon style. He could see her coming through a crowd. Her large pink mouth, slight Elvis curl to it, her little blue eyes, magnified by glasses, too little she said but he liked them, cheekiness there and something else besides, held back in them. Now her hair is a bob, shortish but still thick, grey dyed out, curling at the ends. Her glasses almost invisible. Her mouth pursed, thinner of course, but not as thin as his, like lines drawn he'd been told.

     The I'm fine thank yous put out into the room, the settling down of each, the drawing of herself upright as if drawing a line for him to look at, slumped, unshaven and drugged across from her.
    
     Of course after awkwardness they got deep into everyone they mutually knew and how they were doing and who had died, heart attack, lung cancer, overdose, starting with their inner families and working outwards. When he talked back to her he kept tonguing the inside of his front teeth, the curve of the gum, that's where the taste was. They laughed about his mother, still singing Shirley Bassey songs off key and scowling at the clatter of the letterbox, the ring of the doorbell. I do that, he said, did it when you called, must be hereditary. They went through friends, married and divorced, rich, relatively, and poor. Did she still see Stephen and Alice? She didn't.
    
    
    
    
    
    
     She accepted a joint from him confessing it had been a while as their fingers touched, thumbs and indexes. She had come, she didn't tell him, to hear him play music again, smell and see him across a room, to put a box around a past that was coming up from pavements and found around corners, how pictures were forming of him and them all the time.
    
     There was a sweet oil in the room she must have brought with her. Perfume maybe. There were bright two-foot beings sat either side of her bathing the room in light from their smiles. He could see the shape of her silhouetted in the light. Her shin the same, the one visible, and her knees, just showing below her dress. The calves too looked familiar, behind the shin and the knee never changing.
    
    
    
*

When he got up to shuffle to the kitchen he moved as if Rebel Rebel was still playing even though the music had stopped and she followed to the room where little sunlight penetrated but which seemed sun-filled now. It had leaked in from the angels who were dissolving away in the other room. She tapped his shoulder and touched his side, was to the front of him, to the side of him, helping him with cups and kettle and turning on taps, tutting at his fridge, moving with jar and spoon as if she'd often done that here. As if he'd opened his eyes in a place where things persisted.

     They ate toast in there and recalled their cat, not the strays, the one that stayed with its fat stripy tail like a racoon's. At the door at night they'd call ‘here, child substitute, here subby, subby.' He remembered it wasn't long after its flattened death on the road that she left, some guy had been parked up around the corner for months, some guy she went to meet in a lounge bar of a near-empty pub on the newly built ring road.
    
     The taste of it like soap and salt came back to him and he turned away, pretending to cough, particles of Marmite and crust spat into his hand. Then he started back and collapsed, shaking. The floor tiles where so many things had smashed cooled the length of him. He shuffled up, back against the wall and drew his knees up.
    
     She leant to him. ‘You OK, Bas? Bas, speak to me.'
    
     ‘It's OK, OK,' he said, his body had shuddered at her touch but now calmed. ‘I'm OK. It's the drugs. I'll be there in a minute.'
    
*

When they got back in the front room and put down drinks and food, she sat on the sofa and asked if she could take off her shoes which he helped her do and felt again the slopes of her feet and the knobs of her toes and the curl under them.
    
     The light had diminished, fog-rain at the window, the house swaddled in cloud. He felt for her leg then and she let him.
    
     His fingertips were alive with this new Maxine, the same Maxine, the same stretch of moles and freckles along the inside of her thigh to the centre of her. She moved to let him try things, to move her back and undo and sit back to take her in, what was the same, what was different, nipples grown and spread the same pink as her lips, her skin generally darker though and the belly protruding, nicks and bumps acquired without him, marking her up but under it the same Maxine that he put his fully clothed arms around and felt contact with along the length of him, the same Maxine he clung to back in days more raw and fresh.

They moved upstairs, why had he taken her to the box room that smelt of damp and had crumbled or coming apart books on the windowsill and ledge, posters stacked in cracked frames in a corner, ash and dust laden, the bed cold and resisting as they tried to get in but lay on top of instead, shivery and