‘It feels like there’s been a death in the family.’

‘What?’ asks Violet, who isn’t and never was dancing inside.

‘Yeah really man.’ Chuck sniffs. ‘Aw mate. It’s disgusting having to build it all up again. I haven’t even approached the computer yet. It’s too sad.’

‘Come ere Chuck.’ Violent says in her Brixton glottal. She grins and holds him.

The bed sinks for him, it seems. The paisley covers suck into the dent made by Violet and Chuck. There is some fuzz on the carpet, in-between empty bottles of wine and glowsticks.

‘I’ll delete mine. We’ll go out into the fields and forget all about it.’

‘NO.’ he jolts. ‘No. Please don’t V. It’s such a waste.’ He looks at her, puts his hood up,
rubs his eyes. His makeup has run.

‘Oh look your makeup has run Chuck. Gawd. Thas the biggest tradge mate! It looked so good a minute ago.’ She forcedly covers one of her ears with thick black hair. ‘But no, you’re right. I couldn’t delete my profile.’

‘I wouldn’t want you to.’

‘I’m gonna check it if you don’t mind? I’ll go in the other room and close the door. If you’re not okay with it just say, kay?’

‘No. Don’t mind me.’ Chuck says, burying his head in one of Violet’s pillows and reading a sad poem by Pablo Neruda.

‘167 194.’ she says, breathy, proud.

‘Huh?’

‘Number of friends.’

Roots Manuva plays and some of them saw Children of Men, liked some of it, like when Julianne Moore got shot, but found it pretty boring, pretty silent. The boy at the cinema croaks something at them and they tell him to fucking die. Seriously. Fucking die. Tim’s here. Tim is black, but he’s like, darker than Violet, thinks Chuck, attempting to decipher something.

‘Yite Chuck the pale fuck.’ Tim asks.

Chuck slaps his hand nervously.

‘Yep. You.’

‘I’m fuckin safe. Now I’m with V.’ He touches her hair and she smiles. ‘And yourself
of course, sire.’ He giggles, thinks he’s Eddie Murphy.

‘Chuck’s mopey cuz his MySpace got deleted innit.’ Violet says, chucking popcorn
into her mouth.

‘Really? What happened man?’

‘He had some dope fuckin porn on dint you mate?’ Violent tests.

Chuck looks at her because it is a difficult time. ‘It was like some hentai, anime Japanese porn.’ He remembers it visually, stares off. ‘But it wasn’t even fuckin bad. And then Tom has to come along and poke is fuckin oar in.’

‘Tom? What the MySpace man? Haha. Nah, he doesn’t do shit.’

‘I know it was a joke.’

Chuck considers Violet’s legs.

A broken overhead fan whistles like a moonscape and with all the people, the queues of quiet fuss, the cinema seems somehow deserted.

‘Negativity and positivity are as annoying as each other.’ Rupert says without a coffee in each hand.

‘What?’ Chuck asks.

‘We should be realists.’

‘What be realistic? Like.’

‘Mmm.’

‘Can I borrow your. Jeans.’

‘You can borrow my jeans. Yes.’ Rupert says, shaking, muttering about something.

‘Yeah. You can borrow them. Will you give them back?’

‘Yeah. Yeah.’

‘Hmm. Yeah. Yeah. You can borrow them.’ He carries on muttering, flicking
through the kitchen shelves.

‘What are you talking about. You’re like moaning to yourself.’

‘Well it was all the drugs, Chuck. It was all

‘I’m gonna find all the Big Brother people on MySpace.’ says Violet. It sounded like
she could’ve said anything.

The sun is setting over Chuck’s flat, as they wince at the light, the weak heat up on the roof. Violet puts a 55DSL hoodie on over her bikini. Chuck does look at her legs. Tim sees and nods, happier. Tim is smoking crack.

‘Let’s have a toke.’ says Chuck. He flaps his fringe over his temple and pushes his
New Era cap up and leans over to take the joint.

‘Yeah. Go on. But don’t be gay.’ Tim says.

‘I hate neck scarves now.’ Violet says.

‘What?’ Chuck asks, bending his wrist as he exhales the milky smoke.

‘Especially those Arab ones.’

‘Yeah.’ Chuck agrees.

‘Yeah.’ Tim agrees.

‘So how do you feel about losing your MySpace now Chuck?’ Violet asks, dancing by the edge of the roof.

She loves life, thinks Chuck. I wish she was mine. ‘I feel a little confused. My MySpace used to remind me who I was. And now I’m just like no name, no face, no blog, no bulletin, no About Me, no Who I’d Like to Meet man. With no Interests.’

‘I can’t imagine what you’re going through.’ Violet says. She throws a handful of copper coins down onto the street.

‘Withdrawal.’ says Tim.




listen ere – latest song, Tim types. He posts a link. http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=52908443

cant go on it, types Chuck.

u dont need an account

i no but its just too painful. wat i had && wat ive lost

Tim spends time typing something.

i wld say ur a pussy, but u did hav a lot goin on there init?

yar

wana come 2arave?

a rave? Its not gonna b like at tammis tho izit?

no its sum opening for some cunt club.

whos playin

fuckin some wank bands w/keyboards and no tsetotserone. good dj 1^st tho

kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk

(*)Gammy-Legged Motherfucker(*) may not reply because his/her status is set to Offline.

The silly beauty of a girl called Molly, one of Violet’s mates from art school, dancing like she laughs at problems, right up near Chuck, is incredible. He breaths her in. She looks like his little sister when she was 14, all fringe and limbs. She’s got big blonde hair, ruthlessly cut straight at her eyes, and she’s freckled, fun. She sits on his lap.

‘Dance.’ she mouths.

‘I’m sorry. I’m not really much of a dancer. I’m not really in the mood.’ Chuck says, smiling at inevitability. He’s wearing a white pink/green/yellow/

orange shirt he and Violet designed, with pictures of dead children with chopped off limbs. The girl, Molly, is wearing a wallpaper dress with a thick PE Gym rope wrapped loosely round her hurtful, dainty stomach. She pulls Chuck up angrily. They dance. She smiles comfortably. He imagines her going down a slide. She looks like something from his past. She looks as surprising as a dragonfly. She has a child’s face. She kisses him, her arm up in the air as if she is holding a bag. She breaks away and turns around, presses her thin back into his chest, looks out, moves.

It looks like she has been on holiday, as the cute burns and pinkness of new skin on her shoulders suggest. ‘How old are you?’ Chuck asks into her hair.

‘19.’




Perfect, Chuck knows. ‘Listen, can we go outside for a bit?’

It’s cold. As always, it hits them. A bouncer that looks like Tim frowns forever. Molly rests her head on a table outside. They serve food here in the evenings.

Molly covers her face with her arm and then looks out and up at Chuck, shatters into a smile. She’s fucking great. ‘What’s your MySpace?’ she asks, with innocent pronunciation. ‘I’ve got to go in a minute.’ she explains, always looking outward, as if her urgency is that of needing to hit every club and leave boys feeling as trouserless and thoughtful as Chuck is now. The moon is small in the sky.

‘I got mine deleted, Molly, isn’t it? But give me your number.’ He hands her his RAZR, covered in stickers of manga characters.

‘It’s Moira.’ says Molly. ‘And I don’t do boys without MySpaces.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I need to watch them.’

‘Well give me your number and I’ll set one up tomorrow.’

‘Okay.’ As she types it in she says ‘I’m a very sad person though.’

‘We’re all sad. How sad?’

‘Very sad Chuck. Let me just say bye to my friend and I’ll meet you out here, okay?’

‘Okay.’ He grins dogishly at her. She fades as she leaves.

After 20 minutes Chuck goes inside and then out to the front of the club. 50 girls with large white or black hair look at him and show no response. The word BEAUTIFUL is suspended on a multicoloured banner. A girl is crying. No music is playing. Molly. Molly, or perhaps Moira, is in the middle of the floor with her neck twisted, so much like a dead dove it’s absurd.

‘What happened?’ Chuck asks.

‘She jumped.’




©Andi Smith