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that man’s gaze was the thing that was anchoring me to the planet. Gravity.
Fuck me, she’s class. Cooler than someone with a face like that should be. Fuckin’ hell.
She’s got these looks just for me like—seen ’em more than once now—reckon they’re just mine. Dunno how I know, but I do.
“Like, what the fuck was I doin’ till now?” I shrug it off. “Who the fuck was I singin’ about?”
Fuck yeah, I’m a new man. There was me before Ysolde Featherstonhaugh, and then there’s me now, after.
She laughs. Proper laughs. Best sound I heard since that first time me mum showed me “Here Comes the Sun,” which is funny now that I think of it. I reckon—somehow—them boys wrote that one about her. Feel like science might one day prove it that she, in fact, is the proper fuckin’ sun.
Say that like I’m jokin’, but I ain’t. Want this girl’s approval in me arm like a fuckin’ IV drip.
