One for the Road

San Francisco, United States - Two Years Ago

It was a pretty complicated situation, with a lot of obnoxious layers.

Chris and I had decided to take an indefinite break. Months of passive aggressive jibes and acting like celibate roommates had culminated in an inevitable "conversation." We needed time apart, we needed to see if this relationship was what we wanted. It didn't matter that we lived together, worked together, or that a break wasn't really an easy thing to accomplish– especially an indefinite one. For me, at least. When I fought that, insisted on him leaving for this break, the conversation turned into an all out fight. Gun slinging, bared teeth, going for the jugular. He stormed out of the house, I packed a bag and left, giving him exactly what he wanted.

When I showed up at Miles's without even an explanatory text, his face lit up. I could drive to San Francisco, he told me, and hopped right on in my car.

On the way, he explained: Alex and Alexa had broken up nearly a month earlier. Alex was touring, which Miles had hoped would keep him busy, distracted, upright, but Miles wasn't convinced that was the case.

"He changed his hair, Adri."

I didn't see the correlation, but Miles seemed to think that it indicated a depressive break or quarter life crisis– the failure to properly deal with his break up. So, he was going to surprise Alex and see the Arctic Monkeys perform in San Francisco, and then he was going to take his best mate out to get properly pissed and get his perfectly coiffed head back on straight.

That's how we ended up at the Grand Nightclub after midnight with the Arctic Monkeys that night, taking full advantage of the VIP top floor and top shelf bottle service.

Alex, while maybe not exuberant, seemed okay. Being with Miles seemed to bring out a young, playful happiness in him, and after a few hours, Miles didn't seem as concerned about him. Alex was talking and laughing, dancing like a teenager, and Miles was flirting up a leggy blonde model on the dancefloor.

When the rest of the boys decided to head back to the hotel and call it a night, Alex dropped down beside me at our table.

"D'you think 'e'll get lucky?" he asked, his eyes shining and drunk, his new quiff falling into his face as he pointed at Miles and his model.

I laughed. "Of course he will."

"What do you suppose they're saying?"

I considered the two for a moment– the way they leaned close together, talking drunkenly, passionately, hooded eyes gazing at one another.

Before I could answer, Alex was mimicking Miles's voice, pretending to speak for him: "You should shag me tonight, love. I'm pretty much the next John Lennon."

I laughed, watching them, and then I spoke for the model in an airy, high-pitched voice: "Do you play actual musical instruments?"

"I play them all, babe," Alex said, hitting Miles's accent spot on.

"Oh, you're so smart!"

"My dick is my best instrument of all."

"Oh! Show me!"

At exactly that moment, they walked onto the dancefloor together, disappearing into the crowd, and the timing was so perfect that Alex and I doubled over laughing.

"'e's a good one," Alex said soberly, contentedly, when we had recovered, taking a long drink from his sweaty glass.

"He is," I agreed.