When I got back from Iceland, #28 and I moved into a new flat in Bruntsfield, and installed a Spanish drug dealer and an Australian fire-twirler in the other bedrooms. We called back in to our old home in Montague Street to see the Canadian we’d left behind. A friend of his had shown up in town to DJ at La Belle Angèle. Meeting him was one of those moments that felt kind of electric, but I didn’t even speak to him much. “He was cute,” I remarked when we left the flat, but that was about it.
After his set, a bunch of us were drinking – at the Moo Bar, I think – and then he asked me if he could come home with me. Just like that. Gotta appreciate the direct approach. We hadn’t even kissed yet and we were in the taxi heading home with #28.
Back at our place, things proceeded as expected. Except that #28 had gotten sidetracked with some brennivín, which I’d foolishly brought him back as an Icelandic souvenir. It basically turned him into a hyperactive, annoying eight-year-old who would not go to bed. I’d be in my room making out with #94 and then there’d be a crash in the hallway and I’d go out to find #28 stumbling around being a train wreck, and he’d insist he was fine and I would coax him into his room, and then I’d get back to what I was doing and two minutes later there’d be another crash.
#94 was in town for a few days and we spent another night together. I think maybe he called me in the middle of the night once when he got back to Canada, but my recollection of that time is a bit fuzzy. It was July 2000 and I was earning good money on a web design project and routinely showing up to work late because I was distracted by my social life. And, you know, all the action. I just googled #94 and he is still playing music and performs all over the world. He seems pretty successful. He is also still cute. The end.