This Must Be My Dream / The 1975

3

i keep on lying still on the floor, next to Monroe, a girl with grey hair and grey eyes. i watch her as she touches her pale lips, and she does so very gently, reminding me of Belmondo in Breathless. who knows, maybe she is imitating his moves, maybe she watched the film before she went out , or maybe it's one of her favourite films, maybe it's just Belmondo the one who she admires. It's hard not to admire him.

she stops for a second and closes her eyes as if she had just remembered something, but her face doesn't tell me whether it's a good or a bad thing. her face stays neutral. it stays grey. like always. it's not black and it's not white. she's stuck somewhere in between, but she can surprise you and go from grey to black. or to white. or maybe even blue.

"matty?" 

"yeah?" 

"i want to take a photograph of you," she pokes around her backpack until she pulls out an old camera, "it's my mom's," i smile, because she kind of read my mind, "go over to the window and look at me, okay?" she orders me and i do as she tells me to, "okay?" i ask when i'm positioned in front of the big window, with a cigarette in my parted lips and i want to strike a funny pose or do a dab just to piss her off, because she's funny when she's pissed off, but i decide not to do that, "thank you," i come closer to her and take a look at the photo and i'm impressed, "you're good at this," she shakes her head, "no, it's just really nice lightning. the dimmed lights and your cigarette. it's a good juxtaposition," 

"i like that word," i put out the cigarette on the window shelf," i might start using it more, it could be like my trademark,"

she goes back on the floor, closing her eyes and she opens her mouth, as if she wanted to say something, but she stays silent. 

i could listen to her all the time. she has this calm voice and she knows how to tell stories. anything she says is interesting.

"monroe?"

"mm?" 

"what do you do in life?" she faces me, now lying on her hips, "i search for music and adoration,"

"no but, for real. you're a groupie, a 70's groupie almost," she smiles, slightly, "i am not a groupie, i'm here because of the music. to inspire the music. to support the band, the music,"  

"you know what's really magical?" i shake my head, "no, tell me,"

"hotel rooms," 

i light up a cigarette and tell her to go on, i want her to talk, i really do.

"it's an interesting life, living like this. it's a bit dangerous. but not really. it's falling in and out of love. it's sleepless nights because there's this man in a band who cannot stop writing about you and he plays on his guitar in a hotel room," she sighs and her hand coils up on my arms, "hotels which are either really cheap and unsettling with bright neon signs, humid air, uncomfortable sheets. or hotels for which you have to pay a great amount of money per night, with champagne in the fridge and a view on the whole city. with white, soft sheets and big bathtubs in which you drink champagne and smoke weed," 

"so you want me to play guitar for you in a bathtub?" she pinches me and i squeal like a little bird which makes her laugh, "no, you arsehole," she rolls her eyes, "i'm just saying. it's something magical about hotel rooms and a man who adores you," she rolls over so she's lying on her back, "even more so if you adore that man as well,"