Etude

I remember when I took pictures of you in London. We were sitting in a quiet little place, some Indian hot-shot diner near Trafalgar Square. The black men were serving us crispy bread, rise and meat with neat little napkins and red wine. The king of the rats we were. Like big white cats with soft suits sitting round purple posh pillows and drinking cream. This was an absolute murder in our wallets. But nevertheless, the wallet survived and the sun shines again.
I remember you were wearing something light blue that night. But I cannot bu sure, can I? In the backside of my memory I see some light shades of your blouse or sweater or something that you were wearing. Probably it was a blouse. You´re not realy a sweater person, at least then you weren´t. Maybe things have changed a bit. I was taking pictures of you with your camera and you were holding your arm under your chin. Posing and not posing at the same time. The black men approached asking if we needed anything. Of course we did! "Dessert!" the cats shouted. "Dessert, we need, sir!" And dessert they got. It was washed down with cream-liqueur on crushed ice. No smack, no heroine. The cats are no drug-addicts.
I remember it was after eleven when we left the building. We were walking round the back streets of London and discovered all the places that we did not know existed there. Small boutique shops with lavender dresses on sale, the dummys looking extra thin&pale, with hair coumbed back like a hot dyke would have in Soho night club. That kind of hair has never been really the thing`for us. Too masculine, some say. Too peculiar, odd in a way. The streets soon became calm, like in mid January. People gathering in their huge London lofts. Jude, Carrie-Ann, Annabelle, Cate, Pierce - whoever, whereever. People to meet, people to see. Light curtains everywhere, flowers on the mantelpieces of their big little windows. It was cold, but not really. I had my male cat hat on and you were just shivering from something other then cold. We must have walked five miles that night. And when the night fell, we fell into a bed made on the floor of a building near Marble Arch. We didn`t take a bath that night. Only blankets, pillows and dreams about the Indian hot-shot gourmee diner near to Trafalgar Square.