In Her Prime

What's A Man Suppose to Do?

I nod slowly and take in my surroundings. It makes sense, I'd go crazy being stuck in this tiny studio all by myself, too. The couch is not a very comfortable one to begin with and the room is tiny, sleep is nearly impossible in this place.

"Want one?" Fab asks pulling a beer out of the mini fridge.

I shake my head and he shrugs opening his beer and walking off into another room where I hear the faint sound of guitars. I had spent so much time with them that I could tell the difference between Nick and Albert's style of playing and at this very moment it was Nick laying out a solo.

I listen for a while, long enough to hear Albert join in turning the sound into something that would be considered the signature Strokes sound. Fab is fucking around with the mic singing some obscene nonsense and from the little window of one of the doors I can see Nikolai and Illy making out.

I grab my purse and venture out to the alley way. Julian is leaning against the dirty brick wall facing away from the door, his posture indicating that he was in no mood to even speak, but by this time I knew exactly how to deal with these guys.

"Got a light?" I ask placing a cigarette between my lips.

Without a word he pulls out his lighter, flips it open and holds it out for me.

"Thanks," the smoke seeps out of my parted lips.

"No problem," he answers absentmindedly turning back around and staring off into the distance.

"You look like shit."

"I feel like shit," he mutters scratching at the scruff on his cheeks.

"Why don't you go get some sleep? And I mean in a proper bed, not that shitty couch."

He simply shrugs and lights another cigarette, "I've got shit to do."

"And a whole week to do it. "

"Not enough time," he sighs.

"It's only 10 seconds of a song Julian, there is plenty of time," I inch up closer to him and place my hands on his shoulders massaging them, "you need to relax."

"Are you this touchy with everybody?" he asks taking a drag of his cigarette.

I throw my hands up defensively and take a couple of steps back.

"No. I didn't mean. . . I'm sorry, please don't. . .don't stop. . ." he turns to face me, a somber look in his eyes.

Gently I place my hands on his shoulders, turn him back around, and continue with the massage. He begins to lean his head back and I can feel the tension melt away from him.

---

I manage to convince him to come to my apartment to rest a while since my place was closer to the studio than his and taxi fare was cheaper to split.

"Nice place," he mumbles taking in the view of my apartment.

"Make yourself at home," I smile heading to the kitchen, "want a drink?"

"Uh. . . ye-yeah," he struggles to reply.

When I emerge from the kitchen I catch him engulfed in one of my various portfolios on my coffee table.