we lay on a hobo blanket in his front garden.
my legs were in the air.
the flashdance top which had fashioned itself as a dress through choosing a size too big was riding up and revealing the tops of my thighs to the neighbourhood.
his legs lay across mine.
we didnt care.
he drew and i wrote.


he asked me what i wanted to do if i could do anything at all.
"go to canada. become famous. not too famous, just famous enough to matter. then come home and be nobody again, i think that would be cool."
"yeah, that would be cool. i want to have intercourse with barack and michelle obama. i guess your wish is slightly more plausible."
we laughed, almost catnapped, and when the clouds covered the sun we went inside to watch a film.