Jalan Jalan by Mike Stoner Page A

waiter.
    We’re right in front of the stage. The lead singer smiles down at us.
    â€˜Us bules always get the best seats,’ Julie says through cupped hands over my ear.
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜We’re good for business apparently. Get white people in or sitting next to you and everyone’s happy. We’re like status symbols. And they think we’re loaded of course. Everyone wants a bule as a friend.’
    I’m not sure everyone would want us as their friends, if they really knew us, but I nod anyway.
    â€˜What is a bule anyway?’ I shout over last bars of the song.
    â€˜Albino. They call us albinos,’ she yells back.
    â€˜Cheeky bastards,’ I laugh.
    We order drinks and light cigarettes and watch and listen as the band starts a perfect intro to Guns N’ Roses’ ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine’.
    â€”The best rock intro ever, Laura shouts from my left. I look, expecting to see her eyes wide and alive and head moving to the music, but Naomi smiles back.
    Now you’re happy; now you’re not. Music: the magician of nostalgia and emotion.
    The first two or three notes are sometimes enough. The needle is placed on the record, the crackling starts and the notes line up and form their clever little refrain of a moment of life. Another track from Old Me’s Greatest Hits. Rock on.
    She runs back into the room, all naked white flesh, and jumps in beside me just as Slash starts playing, a little scratchy, a little worn, but still impressive. She presses her body against mine, throwing a leg over my thighs and an arm across my chest and around my neck. My arm around her back pulls her even closer.
    â€˜Strange choice of music for waking up to, Appetite For Destruction?’
    â€˜It is and it does just that, wakes you up.’ She kisses my chest and we lay there silent for the duration of the first track. I smile at the ceiling. I’m lying in bed with a beautiful girl who I don’t know, yet I feel as relaxed with her as I would when I’m alone with myself.
    â€˜You haven’t even asked me what my job is,’ she says.
    She’s right. What the hell we have been talking about?
    â€˜You’ve known me all of a day and not even interested in what I do.’ She flicks my nipple.
    I ask her what she does.
    â€˜I pick up ice-cream salesmen, shag them and get a lifetime’s supply of Mr Whippys, Mivvis and teas.’
    â€˜Well sorry. I’m only selling ice creams for the summer, then I’m hoping to train to become a teacher. Your Mivvis will dry up.’
    â€˜Oh well. You can leave now.’ She makes no attempt to get off me. ‘No Strawberry Mivvis, no more rumpy-pumpy.’
    â€˜If you like Mivvis, I’ll buy you one every week.’
    â€˜OK, in that case you can stay.’ Her hand rests on my abdomen and the warmth of her touch spreads across my stomach and down to my thighs and everywhere in between.
    â€˜So what do you really do?’
    â€˜Let’s get all coincidental. I teach. I work in a language school teaching English.’
    â€˜Let’s get married.’
    â€˜Not yet. Give it another week, don’t want to rush things.’ She presses a finger to my lips. ‘Silence for the best intro in the world coming up.’
    We listen to the opening of ‘Sweet Child O’ Mine’. I don’t disagree with her, mostly because she’s strumming along on my penis. Slash’s fingers dance up and down his instrument while Laura’s dance up and down mine. When the song’s finished and all strumming is over, we kiss.
    â€˜I think we need to see each other often,’ she says, once her lips have separated from mine.
    â€˜You haven’t even asked if I’ve got a girlfriend.’
    â€˜Have you?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Want one?’
    â€˜If you’re offering?’
    â€˜I am.’
    â€˜Cool.’
    She rests on her elbow and looks so deep into