Banjo stood with his arm resting on her shoulder and she felt his hip tucked in against hers; his eyes were focused on the stage as always, or as focused as they could be when he’d had a joint or two, and he seemed to be having a lot lately. Molly always found his enthusiasm for new bands, when he had one of his own, endearing. But tonight her head ached in the hot smoky crowded hall and the sweet smell of the dope made her feel sick: she hadn’t really wanted to make the long drive and she shouldn’t drink at lunchtime, reunion or not, she was too old.

But she couldn’t say that, she couldn’t admit that.

Once she’d said to Banjo: I’m not going to drink or smoke, for a month. After five days, sitting in a café with his beer while Molly drank mineral water, Banjo had said so gloomily, it’s like going out with a Christian well not that I’ve got anything against Christians, that she had laughed and ordered a bottle of wine.

Be Mine

In this groove

Be Mine

sang The Pelicans. The words were often such crap. Banjo told her the words weren’t important, she didn’t understand. He was right then, she didn’t.

She looked up at his face, his dear face that she loved so much.

His dear, twenty-year-younger face.