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Why not take Haloumi?
"So what did you think, buddy?" Flux asked Flyboy as they left the Ointment, New York's most obscure bar, tucked away beneath the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. What distinguished the Ointment was that it was in fact positioned under the middle of the overpass, making of the choppy waters a great moat to deter the casual scenester.
Flyboy shook a curl of his rich dark hair out of his eyeline, his deep green eyes sparkling mischievously.
"Rancid, old boy. Thoroughly rancid. I thought they were so much better before they sold out."
"Sure. I mean, how many people were there tonight?"
"Two. And I bet one of them didn't even have their early stuff when they were signed to Coldwater Suplex."
Flux punched Flyboy's arm affectionately; the gentleness of the blow belied the powerful, tight-packed muscles that moved like steel cables under his tight Pavement longsleeve. No, not that Pavement, the 1960s garage band Pavement who in many ways prefigured psychedelic rock in the US.
"Actually, limey, I have them all. With the original linoleum sleeves. And a picture disc made out of real pitchers. Speaking of which, you were kind of putting it away there, buddy. You sure you're good to go?"
Flyboy laughed, his distinctly un-English teeth - perfectly white, perrfectly regular - glinting in the wan moonlight. In a single, smooth motion, he slipped his own Peterson Lee T-shirt off his shoulders and over his head, revealing a smooth, tanned swimmer's body. Not so powerful as Flux, perhaps, but a body near-gleaming with energy. A body you wouldn't want to mess with. Or maybe...
Before Flux could tamp down this unexpected thought, Fly had neatly swallow-dived into the dark waves. "Last one home is a Phil Collins fan!" he called over his shoulder as his perfectly-poised body penetrated the waves like a dirk. I said dirk.
"Why you...." Flux raced to the breakwaters and plunged in with gay abandon. Flyboy was for it when they got home, he thought.
****
Dripping wet, laughing and maybe play-fighting a little, the boys tumbled through the door of the flat they shared with Ierne, to find a note pinned to a mouth-watering tray of chips and dips.
"Hello boys,
These are left-over snacks from the Hellenic Gallery opening last night - help yourself.
I have retired early - it went on very late. Oh, and I have promised a friend they could crash on the sofa - so would it be OK if you two shared Flux's bedroom? Assuming neither of youhas met a young lady...
I."
"Hah. Girls. As if."
"Yeah....when did a girl know about angry grrrl band Evil Gazebo's back catalogue?"
"Not to mention the strange tale of lead guitarist Rodah McNonagan..."
"The Nine-Sided Axewoman," they said together, and their eyes - Flyboy's deep green, Flux's distinctive gray-specked hazel - met over the cocktail snacks.
"So, looks like it's just us, my waterbed and a lot of Greek Yoghurt. Hey, what's that crumbly white cheese?"
"It must be feta, Flux old boy, it must be feta."
***** |
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