come in from the cold

“Hell yeah!” Simon pumps a fist as the song changes. “Wait a moment. Is this Uptown Funk again?” “Yeah!” Just my luck. In Santa Monica, Simon put this song on every time we were getting ready to go out. And before we even left England. He says it's ‘road trip music’.  “The fuck is wrong with Spotify?” I ask. “This was on five minutes ago!” “More like fifteen. The shuffle reset when you skipped to that Sausalito song. By that emo guy.” “Conor Oberst is not emo.” “He’s 100% pure, full fat, all-natural ingredients emo. Even in his happy songs he sounds like he’s about to cry.” I nudge him, and he pushes me back, laughing, then sits up to tap along on the dashboard. I don’t mind this song, really. It's an improvement on A Horse With No Name. And I like seeing Simon like this. Smile on his lips, wind tossing his hair and plucking at his shirt. I’m glad we get to do this again. Just drive America. I’m glad we can paint over those old bad memories with good ones. Still, there's only so many times I can tolerate 'Uptown Funking me up’. What if I don't want to be Funked up? Has Uptown considered that possibility?

I laugh. “You are a vampire.” He turns back to the fire, his shoulders drawing into a hunch. “Baz.” I’m snickering. “Oh fuck.” He begins rising. Maybe he needs a piss. “I’m glad you’re here,” I say. He freezes “I’m glad I’m not alone.” Suddenly I’m crying, voice stuttering. Baz sits back down. I gaze at his hair, his shoulders, his toes, until I fall back to sleep.