Drunk and fidgety, we climb into the flat above the chemists. It’s not Canada, and I’ve never been, but it feels like Vancouver somehow. When we slide open the window, I check the rooms and they’re all empty. I used to live here many years ago. My room was on the landing. No door, just a curtain. No trace of my former self, but the fridge is full of beer so we continue our merriment. There are girls, and then there’s you. Others are prettier, and they’re easier to get along with, but there’s something about you I can’t put my finger on. I’ve known you before, I’m sure of it, or maybe it’s just that I know your kind. You’ve got a boyfriend. I refer to him as, the cunt. A brain-dead, boy-racing, sleeve tattoo, blow-job chasing, slick-haired ‘look at me I’ve got muscles’ cunt. You’re not a fan of my observation, but you know it’s true. In the park next to the river that’s not frozen but is in memory, there’s a fair run by gypsies. Their kids shit in the river and throw stones at the swans and the locals all live in fear of them. Slouching on the floor in the living room, we talk about all the things we would do to teach them a lesson and then we talk about the things we should do to each other. Is it cheating? Technically yeah I guess, but we are one and the same so it doesn’t count. This time around nothing happens because we’re too pissed and it’s too cold. On your phone, we listen to New Order. I prefer Joy Division, but it’s not the time or the place. Pulling you close, I look at your lips and you know what I’m thinking. Sliding my index finger over your eyebrow, you laugh before lying down. Finishing my beer and joining you soon after, we stare at the ceiling as the gypsy kids howl in the distance. Holding hands, we make a pact and decide to rid the world of those we have no need for. The cunt gets it first, I say, and smiling your secret smile, you nod before falling asleep.