Listening to David Bowie

Whisky replaces blood in our veins. We listen to David Bowie as we drink. It is a record I bought on a weekend trip to Berlin. I listened to it in a bed and breakfast there, but with someone else.

We sit on the bed, wrapped in the rug your grandma gave us when we moved here, and declare every track to be the greatest song ever performed (except Alabama Song, which you skip past, claiming you aren't sure the door downstairs is bolted)

I keep them to myself, the worries that were in my mind before the whisky cap was unscrewed by your nail bitten fingers. As the pupils of our eyes turn the colour of malt, the worries are forgotten.

We empty the bottle with ease. You rinse it out, place it on the bookshelf as David Bowie begins to sing Heroes live from Prague, and I think no night could ever be better.

And then you bring out the Salt and Vinegar Hula Hoops.