"keith laid there, feeling particularly victorious. the girl in front of him was a suitor of many, and who should be so lucky as to land angie dupont?"
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prequel to dead flowers
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Summer was particularly kind in 1967. The summer of love brought forward many gifts, which presented itself in tanned skin and sweet fruit. Keith laid there, feeling particularly victorious. The girl in front of him was a suitor of many, and who should be so lucky as to land Angie Dupont? He shouldn't be, but he had.
"Do you think Anita and Brian will be home soon?" She said, rolling joints. She could no longer smoke them, but was so skilled, and it served as a nice distraction. Her swollen belly of four mouths was contained by beads he had gifted her, colours rich and deep, from a seller in Morocco. He had bought them on tour, forlorn to be apart, and promised that he would take her back to visit. He hadn't yet, and she was acutely aware of the fact.
"Dunno. Don't care." Keith responded, gruffly. He hadn't been getting on with his guitarist for a long while, and it was foolish of him to even stay there, but Angie liked the company of Brian (for reasons he couldn't figure out) and Keith liked the company of Anita. Angie only laughed at his bitterness, lighting the joint before slipping it in between her boyfriend's thin lips, kissing away the few cannabis leaves that had fallen free. Wishing that she, too, could smoke the substance, she returned to her soda, pretending it was whiskey.
Keith sensed her displeasurement, "We'll go to Morocco, and the weather will be nice," Angie crawled onto his chest, laying her head down upon it. She loved when he talked dreamy like this, "And maybe Brian will make up with me." That was untrue, and they both knew it, but it was nice to believe. They were laying in the sun, and lying in it too.
He held his promise this time. They, along with Anita and Brian, were off to Morocco, or at least in the direction towards it. They made many stops along the way, all the while Brian complained. He complained, complained, complained until Keith was red in the face with annoyance, angrily shoving in 45s as he was in charge of the music.
When Brian's voice had dropped its petulance, we realized he may be serious. Angie loved Brian, there was a special spot in her heart for him, but he had always been good at making people feel sorry for him. He ended up with pneumonia, but Keith had no patience. "We'll meet you down there," Angie cooed, kissing his cheek in a friendly manner, "Recover soon." It must've been a lonely time, but they had no time to worry.
Tension in the air was thick even when they got to Tangier, so incredibly until it made Angie dizzy and her thoughts swam. It was Angie, Keith, and Anita, accompanied by the feeling that they should be doing something more than making occasional awkward and polite conversation. Anita was the one to start things, of course she was. Anita Pallenberg, witchy goddess, pursuer of dark magic, a match for Brian's violent tantrums. A nightmare dressed in cheetah-print, Nudie suits and velvet; rock n roll's own temptress.
