my boot and below my footless tights, which are rolled up just below the knee. “Dancer legs,” he says. He does this with the same innocent curiosity as a child having a feel of a woman’s fur coat or a tug at a cat’s tail. I glance at Evan, who, amused, winks at me.
We linger under a yellow awning, all doing a slight jog in place to throw off the chill of the misty air. When Brandon joins us, reeking of wet fake rabbit fur, we offer feedback and encouragement on his performance. “I had fun,” Brandon says, almost apologetically, as if suddenly ashamed of his bunny debut. “Well, as long as you had fun ,” is the sarcastic Dylan’s lame contribution to our critiques, as he cups his hands to light a cigarette against the wind.
“Look, Sylvia, there’s your gloom and doom moon.” Evan directs my gaze to the disc that shimmers despite the daylight. I’m wondering how he knows that Sylvia is big on moon imagery.
It’s decided that we’ll head back to the loft that Brandon now shares with two roommates. I follow them reluctantly onto the elevator, and Dylan watches me as the doors close.
“Haley hates elevators,” he reports.
“There are stairs,” Evan offers, moving as if to accompany me, but the doors have shut and we’ve already begun the ascent. I steel myself to remain calm in Evan’s presence, shooting Dylan a withering look.
“You’re turning white,” the ever-helpful Dylan observes.
“We could die,” the bunny says, his long bunny ears bopping Dylan in the head when the elevator lurches suddenly. The doors won’t open.
“Any last confessions?” Evan encourages, edging closer to me.
“Any plagiarized cat poems you want to ‘fess up to?” Dylan needles. When the doors remain closed Evan senses my alarm and takes my hand, but when the doors suddenly open he releases it, aware of Dylan’s disapproving glare.
And then we’re in the loft, with its space all cordoned off into small partitions, the furniture sparse, the sunlight flaring through a wall of windows, and a lizard lounging under a lamp in a cage on the floor. This is the iguana that belongs to the female roommate, a wildlife photographer. Brandon says she takes the scaly creature to bed with her to cuddle when it cries in the darkness.
The Roomies are still kicking around ideas for a new name for the band. They have satisfactorily completed two songs for their six-song demo. Dylan has them booked at The Cat Club this weekend. I suggest Red Hunting Hat.
“It’s from The Catcher In The Rye ,” I say. “Holden wears the red hunting hat all the time. And he bought the hat in New York, so there’s a hidden New York reference.”
“That would sound cool in interviews,” Joe says.
“I hated that book.” Dylan stretches his long legs before him, one arm resting along the back of the couch, a black shirt tucked out over his jeans, his hair caught into an inch of ponytail.
I glance at Evan as if to say, Can you believe this is my brother?
“You pride yourselves on being these big rebels.” I rest on the red velour overstuffed easy chair and Evan sits beside me on the arm of the chair. “It would be an homage to one of the great rebels in literature.”
“A what?” Joe asks, and I clarify, “a tribute.”
“The guy was a trust fund brat who brought all his problems on himself, because he had way too much time on his hands. If he had to work for a living he wouldn’t have had so much opportunity to brood and get into trouble.”
“Dylan thinks all the problems of the human condition can be solved by gainful employment,” I say, sipping the tea that Evan has brewed for me.
“Gainful employment goes a long way. I’m keeping a tab. You owe me for today’s train and theatre
We linger under a yellow awning, all doing a slight jog in place to throw off the chill of the misty air. When Brandon joins us, reeking of wet fake rabbit fur, we offer feedback and encouragement on his performance. “I had fun,” Brandon says, almost apologetically, as if suddenly ashamed of his bunny debut. “Well, as long as you had fun ,” is the sarcastic Dylan’s lame contribution to our critiques, as he cups his hands to light a cigarette against the wind.
“Look, Sylvia, there’s your gloom and doom moon.” Evan directs my gaze to the disc that shimmers despite the daylight. I’m wondering how he knows that Sylvia is big on moon imagery.
It’s decided that we’ll head back to the loft that Brandon now shares with two roommates. I follow them reluctantly onto the elevator, and Dylan watches me as the doors close.
“Haley hates elevators,” he reports.
“There are stairs,” Evan offers, moving as if to accompany me, but the doors have shut and we’ve already begun the ascent. I steel myself to remain calm in Evan’s presence, shooting Dylan a withering look.
“You’re turning white,” the ever-helpful Dylan observes.
“We could die,” the bunny says, his long bunny ears bopping Dylan in the head when the elevator lurches suddenly. The doors won’t open.
“Any last confessions?” Evan encourages, edging closer to me.
“Any plagiarized cat poems you want to ‘fess up to?” Dylan needles. When the doors remain closed Evan senses my alarm and takes my hand, but when the doors suddenly open he releases it, aware of Dylan’s disapproving glare.
And then we’re in the loft, with its space all cordoned off into small partitions, the furniture sparse, the sunlight flaring through a wall of windows, and a lizard lounging under a lamp in a cage on the floor. This is the iguana that belongs to the female roommate, a wildlife photographer. Brandon says she takes the scaly creature to bed with her to cuddle when it cries in the darkness.
The Roomies are still kicking around ideas for a new name for the band. They have satisfactorily completed two songs for their six-song demo. Dylan has them booked at The Cat Club this weekend. I suggest Red Hunting Hat.
“It’s from The Catcher In The Rye ,” I say. “Holden wears the red hunting hat all the time. And he bought the hat in New York, so there’s a hidden New York reference.”
“That would sound cool in interviews,” Joe says.
“I hated that book.” Dylan stretches his long legs before him, one arm resting along the back of the couch, a black shirt tucked out over his jeans, his hair caught into an inch of ponytail.
I glance at Evan as if to say, Can you believe this is my brother?
“You pride yourselves on being these big rebels.” I rest on the red velour overstuffed easy chair and Evan sits beside me on the arm of the chair. “It would be an homage to one of the great rebels in literature.”
“A what?” Joe asks, and I clarify, “a tribute.”
“The guy was a trust fund brat who brought all his problems on himself, because he had way too much time on his hands. If he had to work for a living he wouldn’t have had so much opportunity to brood and get into trouble.”
“Dylan thinks all the problems of the human condition can be solved by gainful employment,” I say, sipping the tea that Evan has brewed for me.
“Gainful employment goes a long way. I’m keeping a tab. You owe me for today’s train and theatre
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