...of distance

- Why the Earl Grey?
- What?
- Why're you drinking Earl Grey? It's such a cliche.
- Oh... I dunno... this guy I know... he makes it... and he says the flavour's incomparable.
- Is that the artist?
- No a friend of his, the son of the woman who's the benefactor for the Youth Homeless Project.
- Does he have a name?
- Wooton... Henry.
The silence between them wasn't awkward - it was boorish and stupid. Like a drunk, drooling student it bumped about the trendy minimalism of the penthouse, knocking into the blocky blue divans, the huge coffee table, the varnished wood pediments that supported Cathode Narcissus's nine monitors. Dorian was so easily influenced - they both knew this. He took on other people's styles, modes and even habits the way kitchen towelling sopped up spilt milk. And was there any point in crying over this? When he'd begun fucking Helen he'd taken to drinking Lapsang Souchong - now he was getting infused elsewhere. Of course she'd known he was a poof, but only in the way we all know we're going to die.

[Dorian, Self, W.]