We'd spent over a year in daily communion with each other. Messing around, playing Risk and indulging in risky behaviour, fancying the same girls and being fancied by the same girl, crazy days and mad nights; most people thought that we were a couple. Perhaps in a sense we were, we were rarely apart.
But now we were developing a shared habit; it was time for us to part, to go home to who we once were, and become what we could be. Together, it was clear, we'd drag each other under.
It all ended on a slip-road off the M6. Junction 33.
The previous night we'd stayed up playing bridge and listening to the Small Faces [there were others who we were leaving], about four we went for a full English at Forton. Then it was off to hitch to our respective homes.
The last thing he said to me was, "see if he'll take two..." as I got into the lorry. I didn't ask.
I didn't think much about it then. Now I see it as the start of the closing down of a part of my life. A part of my life which must have had an effect on the-me-now. A part of my life to which I have no connection to any more.
When I look inside myself I see the same me. But that day I not only lost Mickey but I started to lose the boy I once was.
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I was listening to The Small Faces this morning.
Haven't been on here much recently but nice to see one of your novel posts (in all senses of the word) on the first page!