Fiction | May 07, 2016

He likes Spandau Ballet, and he loves Kershaw and Collins and Sting. But it’s Sade that he most wants to see. Sade is for grownups, David thinks. Her music is the soundtrack to the adult world—the world he can’t wait to join. It’s a world of trilbys and panama hats, of cream linen suits and black leather and the light slanting in through half-closed blinds. A world of mirrors and silk bedsheets and afternoon sex while a saxophone—even the word is almost sex-ophone—plays softly in the background somewhere. But he won’t get to see Sade or anyone else, not for five bloody minutes, not so much as a song, because his mum wants him to go outside and play. Alright, what she said was “get some fresh air,” but “play” is what she meant, he could tell. How old does she think he is?

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