Lilliane’s new song poured from the hi-fi, bringing me to tears: “What Will We Be Burning?”. I was honoured to be inhabiting her lyrics. In one of her rooms where Sancho had fitted a black taxi cab, I read aloud one of my screenplays. She was so hyperactive and thin and muscular. Really elegant! Irresistible, despite our better judgement.
So, in the morning, we found ourselves displayed lewdly at the table, breaking our fast on one another’s bodies, and avocado and papaya and coconut. Once we were conjoined, we became very still in the fusion of pompoir. But, she called a sudden halt, panicking over what to wear for her appointment with a photographer she was already late for.
She showed me a warning she’d scrawled with a felt-tipped pen on her denim shirt sleeve cuff.
After many attempts at costume, she settled on a bright orange business suit, blue silk stockings and stilettos.
We met a photographer in a gallery and he talked about ‘creating an image, the capturing of a soul’s light’.
Later, we browsed through a record shop and Lilianne seemed to realise, ‘there’s no point in anything’. She was accosted by a supercilious music radio station host who recognised her from her last television show.
‘I’m more shy than I think I am.’
‘No, it’s the other way round.’
He didn’t need any persuasion.
© A. A. Walker