Chapter Text
The smell of fresh peaches was still the same as he remembered from childhood. It was such a pleasant, sweet smell that he almost fell into the trap set by his mind, falling back into the hole in which he was born. From that town in the south of England, Graham Coxon carried nothing but memories like this one, so specific and beautiful they stood in stark contrast to the general ugliness of the place. The smell of peaches, which came only at the height of summer and spread backwards into spring, stifling the streets, matched the sound of traffic on the avenue that cut through the neighbourhood. The children running back and forth also disguised the clear neglect the neighbourhood suffered from the government, which had abandoned it along with its uncared-for people.
And, of course, in that decaying neighbourhood, he had met her.
Daisy, Daisy, Daisy.
Daisy was like a flower blooming in the middle of the desert, living proof that beauty could be born even in places like that. Graham remembered the small details of her, so specific and beautiful they stood in contrast to the difficult path they had shared in life. He remembered how her blonde hair gleamed in the light of the sky, how her cheeks flushed whenever they ran together anywhere in particular. He remembered watching her sharp teeth sink into a peach they had stolen from their neighbour, Mr Westchester. He had told Daisy not to climb the peach tree, and he remembered the cold feeling in his stomach when she ignored him. As always, no paranoia or warning he could give was enough to stop her from doing exactly as she pleased.
"Oi, you little brat! What d’you think you’re doing?" Mr Westchester shouted, coming out from inside the family grocer’s. Behind him came two more children Graham knew from school. If not from school, then he would have known them from the park, the shop, the street. There’s a certain innate mythology within small towns like that. Everyone knew each other in one way or another, everyone knew the gossip, heard the whispers.
So it was no surprise that much of the neighbourhood knew Daisy Lane. After all, how could they not? She was born there, raised there. She always stood out for her huge green eyes, her angelic complexion. She never allowed herself to pass unnoticed, flashing mischievous smiles every time she answered back to the teacher. Graham, in turn, was as close to invisible as that town ever knew. The son of a soldier and a housewife, he was the first and last child that couple would have. Some of the old ladies who whispered every time he passed — "That’s the Coxons’ boy" — put the lack of more children down to the mother’s frigidity. Graham learned early on what that meant: that his parents didn’t sleep together because his mother somehow repelled his father. In a way, he didn’t blame her for it; his father could be revolting when he was around. If he was around. He never was.
Daisy quickly climbed down from the peach tree, her bare feet dirty. "Hey, get this!" She threw the fruit into Graham’s arms before glancing back at Westchester. Unsatisfied with just the theft, she stuck her tongue out at the big, bald, burly man. Before he could lunge at them, Daisy bolted towards the field behind the neighbourhood. And Graham followed. He was always one step behind her, tracing her steps, savouring the world she carved out. They reached the edge of the stream, where the clinking of the bottles they had stolen from her parents, tied to the trunk of a tree so that they bobbed against the break of the river, was soft.
He watched her bite into the peach before biting into his own. The juice filled his mouth and dripped down his chin, making him turn his face so the liquid wouldn’t stain his shirt. Daisy laughed at his reaction before stretching out her hand. Her fingers were far too calloused for such a young girl. He laughed. They had been twelve years old when they last stole peaches from Mr Westchester. He let out a sigh.
"Daisy," Graham said, his pre-pubescent voice tearing through the silence. "I miss you."
Daisy turned her face towards him, and he saw her green eyes sparkle when they met his, black and deep. And she laughed. But it was a laugh he knew well, laced with scorn, as though she doubted what he was saying. He swallowed hard as he heard:
"You should have saved me, Graham."
The birdsong gave way to the sound of a strong breeze shaking the tree branches. The late summer breeze was now a cold gust of wind. The sun had vanished completely. Daisy no longer looked at him, but into the distance. Someone was calling her, the voice far away.
"I have to go," she said, hurried, frightened. He couldn’t quite tell why. He reached for her hand, stopping her from standing up.
"No. Don’t go!" he pleaded.
"I said I have to."
"I don’t want to be here without you."
Yet the song of a nearby bird grew louder and louder, like a siren. Like an alarm clock.
Graham’s eyes snapped open, but his body was far too heavy to rise yet. His heart was racing, but everything around him seemed to move in slow motion. He swallowed hard, parting his lips to breathe better for a few moments. He needed air. He was no longer in his old hometown, he hadn’t just stolen fresh peaches from a tree. Daisy wasn’t there, and so life was already worse. He grabbed the phone buzzing on his bedside table, switching off the “Do Not Disturb” mode he had set around ten the night before, in an attempt to leave the phone aside and get an earlier night’s sleep. It hadn’t worked; Graham had fallen asleep late anyway. His bed was far too big, and he always ended up rolling across it during the night, used as he was to sleeping alone. His body was still heavy as he dragged himself up to the bathroom for a hot shower.
The flat he had bought was in the heart of London. Spacious, with a high ceiling and a refurbished bathroom. Its windows stretched from floor to ceiling, in the sort of ostentation only a London bourgeois — the previous owner — could afford to have. He filled the place with his own things in the hope of making it more like a home. The items he had bought when he first found success with his band, more than twenty years earlier, varied from art to toys, shoes, spectacles. Dusty frames on the wall displayed gold, platinum, and diamond records with the record label’s generic congratulations. He didn’t complain much; his label had been kind enough to keep him around and manage most of his career.
Contracts like the one he had signed at seventeen, when he finished school and left his parents’ house, could be treacherous. Too many clauses, too many traps, and boys like him, inexperienced and hungry to succeed, would sign anything. Technically, he was still contracted to Midas, but he hadn’t heard from them in a long time, as though even the bloodsuckers at the label knew there was no more blood running through his veins. He had made good contacts during the glory years, people who seemed quite understanding of his lack of creativity and drive. Noel Gallagher was one of them.
Graham and Noel had met early on, when the label shoved them into a single studio for lack of funds to rent two different ones for two beginners. Noel was initially quiet but very polite; Graham was quiet too, so that wasn't a problem between them. The writing session only really seemed to work once they decided to buy beers and a bit of cocaine from one of Noel’s suppliers. It was the 90s, after all: everyone needed a bit of cocaine to get by. After that, they began writing together, discovering a certain chemistry between them.
Noel always had something to say, though he rarely let the words leave his mouth. He preferred to let his songs speak for him — about life, his little house in the English countryside, the poverty that haunted his childhood. Despite creating worlds with his words, he was a limited musician: Graham counted that he always used the same three chords, which was why his riffs all sounded alike. Graham, in turn, cherished the instrument and saw it as something far beyond a mere support for messy lyrics on paper. His guitar had a life of its own, or at least, that was what he used to say.
Graham and his guitar had been an inseparable pair since childhood. His parents had never liked how the boy seemed to swallow his words, as if his ideas died halfway up his throat. It grew worse when he discovered that the guitar could be the perfect way to express what he felt without the emotional obstacle of speaking to his parents, or anyone, about his feelings. His fingers translated what was in his heart, and only those who truly understood music could understand him. Daisy understood; Noel learned to understand. And all those lunatics who bought his albums, swearing they connected with every note, every adjustment, every song, seemed to understand too. He liked to think he made music for those like him: the misfits, the ugly, the ones who believed life was doomed to the worst. In any case, that only pushed him to do more, to work harder; he felt connected to it, moved by the chance to touch people. Until the music ended.
Noel had been very understanding at the time, more than any other friend. He and his wife, Katherine — who had always been far too much for him, Graham thought — took him into their home for a while, always encouraging him to create something. But the attempts were futile. Noel offered him everything: opportunities to produce new records, to collaborate, to form a band, and Graham always found some excuse to refuse. Until the invitations stopped. Noel seemed to get the message. So when Noel invited him to teach at a local university, Graham didn’t think twice before accepting. He couldn’t say no anymore, but he also couldn’t stay in the house night and day, waiting for something to happen to drag him out of his misery.
He was never one for breakfast, but that morning he walked to the kitchen and opened the cupboards in search of a miracle. Nothing, since he hadn’t shopped in a while. He settled for an old cereal bar lying forgotten in some drawer, slipping it into the pocket of his leather jacket. Before leaving, he looked in the mirror only to worsen his mood.
If, in his youth, he had been known for his almost endearing looks, with his huge black eyes behind thick glasses, age had stripped all innocence from his face. Time had deepened his eye-bags, more pronounced than ever, contrasting with his ever-darker eyes. The hair he still had to cut every fortnight was still thick — thank goodness — but now he had more grey strands than he could count. The grey seemed to spread across his body, appearing in his beard and on his chest too. He was no longer as thin as before, his body seemed to fill out his shirts more, yet he still wore the same clothes he had bought in the 90s, careful not to damage them.
He was still himself, after all.
In any case, he left the flat in a hurry, heading for his motorbike so he could reach the university on time. He didn’t want to be late on his first day, that would be far too embarrassing for both him and Noel, so he revved up the bike and sped off. The city of London was like him: old but somewhat functional. As a boy, he would daydream about living there, with those old buildings and all the buses like in the films, wondering if one day he would feel it was home. In his fifties, he discovered that this definition of home as a place you belonged to wasn’t real, or at least didn’t seem so. He didn’t feel at home where he was born, nor there, where he lived.
The streets were familiar, every corner of his route, but he still longed to run barefoot on the grass, to climb trees for fruit. Even if the grass scratched his feet and the fruit was unripe, his mind insisted on returning to the past he had lived long ago. He even shook his head as he tried to balance on the bike, trying to drive away the vivid memories, in a futile attempt to simply live the day. To get through it without the pain.
So he sped up, as if fleeing from his own mind.
ᓚᘏᗢ
Graham was used to feeling a little out of place.
A little too big, he had got used to hunching his shoulders and neck so as to seem smaller and take up less space. A little too sensitive, according to his father, so he had learned to swallow his tears and keep his complaints to himself. Later on, a little too withdrawn, so he relied on others to help him interact and get by in society. So, when he opened the door to the staffroom and stepped inside, drawing the stares of those already settled there, he pulled an uncomfortable face.
“Graham!” He heard Noel’s voice calling his attention, his friend striding over to him.
Now, becoming a lecturer was one of the most tragic endings a rock star could have. True, he’d mentioned as much to Noel. But, during a night of drinks at the Gallaghers’ house, Noel had told him something important: “It’s about legacy, mate. It’s seeing some eighteen-year-old kid, who doesn’t know a thing yet, learn everything you had to pick up the hard way.” And Graham had half-agreed, though he thought it sounded like one of Noel’s ego trips. Still, he had to admit: since he could no longer play, it might be good to teach someone everything he knew.
“Graham, glad you came, mate.” Noel clapped his shoulder as they greeted each other. “Let me introduce the lads. This is Dave, and you remember Alex, don’t you?”
Graham nodded, shaking hands with the two, first the redhead, then the dark-haired one.
“Ah, Graham Coxon. How does the song go again…?” Alex began, making Graham turn his face towards him. They had met a few years earlier, at one of Katherine Gallagher’s extravagant parties. He looked exactly that: extravagant. “Oh, that’s it! ‘All the people, so many—’”
Graham’s grimace deepened.
Noticing it, Noel clapped his hands and shook his head. “Alright, alright. Graham’s going to be working with us now.”
“No kidding!” Dave said, cheerful.
Alex and Dave couldn’t have been more different. Alex was tall — far too tall — with striking features, while Dave was short, wiry. Alex’s black hair fell over his forehead, as though he’d never really left adolescence. Dave’s red hair was so pale it was almost blonde, so ginger that even his eyelashes nearly disappeared against his blue eyes. Graham realised he had been staring at them too long, searching for flaws. He found them: Dave’s eyes drooped too much, Alex’s teeth were dirty. He couldn’t help it; it was a habit. He always sought out the least elegant, ugliest feature in anyone’s face, as he would in the mirror. Not because he paid too much attention to others, but as a product of his own narcissism, a consolation for all the flaws he saw in himself.
“Didn’t think Noel would manage to talk you into this,” Alex said, teetering close to the edge. “I mean, no one’s heard a peep out of you—”
“Oi,” Noel tried to intervene, turning his face to Graham.
“Needed the money,” Graham blurted. It was a lie. “Same as you.”
Dave let out a low laugh at the almost sharp tone in his voice. Noel laughed too, less discreetly, giving Graham’s shoulder a squeeze.
“Ah, right, that,” Alex James now said, referring to his financial troubles. “How d’you know about that?”
“Everyone knows,” Graham replied, a wicked little smile tugging at his lips. “It’s not as if your wife’s been keeping quiet about it.”
“Alright, enough. Let’s get you to your classroom, yeah? Come on.” Noel gestured, and Graham stood, nodding curtly to the other two.
Noel and Graham left, leaving Alex and Dave alone again in the staffroom. The dark-haired man turned to his friend: “Who’d have thought… Graham Coxon’s a wanker.”
Coxon walked out with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket, thinking perhaps wearing any other shirt might have been more appropriate. The university was big, modern; it made him wonder if he should have gone to uni himself. But then he remembered the chaos of turning seventeen, moving to London, the record labels chasing him. His demo tape circulating thanks to Daisy, who had sent a recording of Graham to a radio station. Her marriage.
“Alex is a twat,” Noel said.
There was a marked height difference between Noel and Graham — fifteen centimetres or so — yet it had never stopped Noel acting like the bigger of the two. Understandable, really: Noel Gallagher had a sharp tongue, especially in the nineties. Graham remembered how startled he had been at Noel’s politeness in person, so different from the persona he gave the press.
“Don’t say that,” Graham said, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t know why he’d snapped at Alex; it had just slipped out, quick, like a defence mechanism. “You reckon he’s pissed off with me?”
Noel chuckled. “I bloody hope so. Imagine it! It’ll be hilarious seeing Alex’s sulky mug every time you walk in.”
Graham smoothed the hair flattened at the back of his head, deciding silently that he’d hate to see Alex’s sulky mug every day, even as he knew he’d enjoy driving James up the wall. Noel glanced at him, and Graham couldn’t help but break into a laugh.
Noel seemed to take the longer route to his classroom. They strolled side by side, passing a few early students. It was calm, patient, the way their friendship had become over the years. They still had a million things left unsaid, and Graham knew Noel did too, but neither of them would ever say them. They were fine like this.
“Thanks, by the way.”
“For what? For swapping your Signature Telecaster for Paul Weller’s Les Paul? Believe me, that was a favour to him.” He laughed. “Your Tele was practically brand new compared to his guitar.”
“No…” Graham bit down on his lower lip. “For this. The job. You were right, that whole legacy thing… yeah, I think… it matters.”
Noel turned to him with a smug little smile, stopping at last outside room 169. “I know. I’m usually right about most things. Took you thirty years to catch on? Bit slow, aren’t you?”
“Fuck off.” Graham laughed as Gallagher opened the door.
The classroom Graham would have was spacious, with a glass board and a few markers to use as a whiteboard. He counted nearly forty wooden desks, which also looked new. A projector hung from the ceiling. On his desk, there was an iPad at his disposal. Nothing like anything he’d ever seen back in his town, nothing like his own school days.
“I know,” Noel said, resting a hand on the desk, looking at Coxon. “Rich kids’ bollocks.”
Graham gave a nasal laugh. “Yeah.” He paused for a few seconds. “Now we’re the rich kids’ bollocks, aren’t we?”
Noel clicked his tongue. “Nah… used to be, really. Back in the nineties, I had seven cars and couldn’t even drive! I was the most popular bloke in England, I had models throwing themselves at me… and now? Pft. Now I’ve got grey hair, three kids, and a wife who hates me.”
Graham snorted. “She doesn’t hate you.”
“No. She does. Every wife hates her husband,” he said, with a smirk. Graham suspected he said it as a sort of excuse for having taken so long to marry Katherine. It was a cat-and-mouse game.
“No…” Graham laughed.
She wouldn’t hate me, he thought.
Perhaps the lives we never lived have a reserved place at the back of our minds. The possibilities, the what-ifs, were so present in Graham’s head that he began to suspect unreality itself was taking up more and more space with age. Daisy would laugh at him; she would tell him he wasn’t as old as he thought. But the truth was he felt old, tired — the weight of each year ached in his joints.
“Oi,” Noel broke the silence. “You alright, mate?”
Graham then realised he had a finger in his mouth, nervously nibbling at a nail. It was another habit he couldn’t kick; he was full of them. He shoved his hand down into his jeans, rubbing his fingers against the fabric. “Yeah. Mm. Yeah, I’m fine.”
ᓚᘏᗢ
The fact is, no one really wants to know how you’re doing when they ask: “How are you?” It’s just politeness. Graham had learned early, because of his father, that this question only ever had one possible answer, the timid “I’m fine,” because, truthfully, no one actually cares. Everyone knows you’re miserable all the time. Graham got used to pain, lived despite it and with it. The answer was automatic; no one really cared and he didn’t really care about people either, so why bother them with monologues about his aches? Wasn’t it written all over his face?
Classes went smoothly, just an introduction about who he was, what he would be teaching, the fundamentals of guitars. Three small groups, twenty-something students each, a striking division between the smaller group of students, somewhat impressed by having him as their professor, and the larger group completely indifferent to his presence, which was fine. By the end of the third class, Graham glanced at his wristwatch, watching the students pour out through the door.
It was 2:26 p.m. Perfect! He would still have time to…
“Shit.” He heard a voice from the door, and he quickly turned his head to see where it came from.
For a few seconds, Graham truly believed he had finally reached real madness. He feared, for a brief moment, that his father had been right, that his creativity would turn him into a schizophrenic like his grandmother who, hysterical, had been sent to a rehabilitation clinic and died there, alone, branded insane. Graham simply couldn’t believe it — he was about to call paramedics to haul him away in a straitjacket. In that short span of time, he swore he had seen Daisy. But it wasn’t, it couldn’t be: it was a boy.
A boy so similar to his love that he had to take a step back. It was as if he was seeing her standing there, as beautiful as she had always been, but different. That boy Graham didn’t know was young, like all of his students, but his face looked transported from another time. He had the same nose she did, the same lips he had stared at countless times. His hair was light, his fringe falling over eyes that… that were only his own, for they were blue.
“Yes?” He found himself saying.
The boy was hugging his own body but dropped his arms as he stepped into the room. Graham noticed he was trembling, yet still forcing a smile as he walked toward him. Graham blinked several times, staring, hoping the similarities between him and Daisy would fade. Not only did they not fade, they sharpened with each step.
“Am I too late?” the boy asked.
“Well, yeah. Class just ended.” Graham frowned.
The boy laughed, running a hand through his hair just to tug at the strands, messing them up even more. Graham resisted the impulse to walk over and fix them.
“Sorry, I—” He finally lifted those blue eyes, and the moment they met his, Graham felt his knees nearly give out right there. How was it possible? He looked so much like her it was unbearable. The boy couldn’t stop a smile, and neither could Graham. He looked around to see the empty classroom, “Hm, I think I'm a little too late.”
“Yeah, I noticed.” Graham replied, folding his arms. “I’m the professor.”
His eyes were the only thing that separated that kid from Daisy — a deep blue instead of the green Graham knew by heart. His pupils were huge; was he happy to see him too? Graham looked away, now at his hands, still trembling. Sweat glistened at the base of his neck. He was high.
“Ah, shit. Sorry then, professor.”
Graham stayed rooted to the floor. He was already running late, traffic would be impossible at that hour. But with the boy standing so close, he found it hard to leave — like a fly willingly caught in a spider’s web. His voice was deep and almost melodic, hypnotic.
“It’s fine.” Graham murmured.
“No, I— I just don’t want the absence on my record, you know?” the boy said, placing his trembling hands on the desk. Graham swallowed hard, caught off guard when the boy asked: “What are you staring at?”
Without thinking, he replied: “You look familiar.”
The boy smiled. “What’s the name?” His tone was playful, teasing. In one motion, he hopped onto Graham’s desk to sit there. For just a split second, Graham noticed the packet, a zip-lock bag, slipping from his pocket: cocaine.
Graham snatched it up and shoved it into his own jacket pocket. “Daisy,” he said.
“Daisy… That’s a pretty name.”
Graham said nothing, only pushed the packet deeper into the leather pocket, still taking advantage of the time to look at him. He wore a beaded necklace and a black shirt that exposed his collarbones. Bare and raw. Innocent and young. The boy broke the silence: “Is she pretty?”
Graham almost laughed. “The prettiest.”
The boy smiled, as if the compliment had been meant for him. Maybe it was.
“Then I guess you could help me out… with my absence, professor.” he said, swinging his legs since they didn’t reach the floor.
“Can I?” Graham frowned.
“You should.” The blond affirmed, and Graham saw his collarbones deepen as he braced his hands on the desk again, raising his shoulders. “For your girlfriend, the one that looks like me.”
Graham ran his tongue over his lips before correcting him. “You look like her.”
“Same thing.” He tilted that damn nose upward, just like she used to.
Graham shook his head, thinking he really was going insane. “No, no, I can’t.”
“What? Of course you can!”
“Lying on my first day isn’t exactly good for my image.” He chuckled nasally.
“Just this once!” The boy defended himself, rolling his eyes. He seemed less agitated now. “I promise I’ll be on time for the next class.”
Graham found that creature so curious. He looked so much like her, yet at the same time felt like something entirely different. The way he spoke, his deep voice. Masculine and yet completely delicate, beautiful. He had the kind of beauty that used to make Coxon jealous when he was younger, but this time he could only admire it.
“What’s your name?” Graham asked.
“Damon Albarn.” He extended his hand to Graham, who promptly shook it. “And you?”
“Guess.” His tone was playful.
“Well, you’re definitely not the Gallagher, that much I know.” He shook his head. “Graham Coxon.”
Graham nodded, and Damon smiled.
“See, Graham Coxon? I’m a good kid, I know my teachers’ names. You could cut me some slack.”
Graham laughed: “No, Damon Albarn, I can’t. Sorry.”
Damon slid off the desk, clearly giving up on the ambush. “Fine, whatever. I only signed up for this crap class because I needed to fill my schedule anyway.” Now his tone was harsher, probably irritated for not getting what he wanted. He took steps toward the door, hands in his pockets.
Graham saw him realise his little packet was missing. Damon took a few steps back, turning to the desk again. Graham smiled, watching him now focused only on finding that baggie, no longer playing the charming act. Good. Even in this, he was like Daisy.
“What are you looking at?” Damon asked, now annoyed.
“Nothing. You just still look familiar.” Graham almost smiled.
“Yeah, like your little girlfriend.”
“You look more like her when you smile.” Coxon replied, sitting back in his chair to watch the boy kneel, searching. “What’s wrong?”
“I lost my blow.”
“Oh, blow?!” Graham’s tone was mock surprise. “You skipped class to snort blow?”
“No. I skipped class because I had snorted blow, that’s different.” he said, and Graham almost laughed.
“Don’t you think you’re too young for that?”
“I’m twenty and very wise for my age.”
Twenty years, oh, God. Less than half of Graham’s age. Twenty years earlier, his life had already been transformed into something unrecognisable: he was in London, already so far from Daisy. That bit of information was a jolt of reality — he shouldn’t be here, staring at that boy as he bent down to check the floor, crawling on his hands and knees. He definitely shouldn’t notice how his shirt rode up a little at the back, exposing the dimples at the base of his spine. Jesus, he shouldn’t.
He stood up abruptly. “Well, Damon, you can look for your… uh, your thing later. I have to lock the room.”
“Coxon, come on! Do you know how much a good gram costs? A lot of money.” The blond turned to him, legs spread apart. Graham thought of kicking him just to watch him crawl back.
“No, I don’t care.” He held out his hand. Damon stared at it for a few seconds before taking it and standing. Now their closeness was inevitable.
Damon smiled. “Well, if you find it…” His hand slid onto Graham’s shoulder, far too close. Graham could smell his cologne now, his back tense. “I’ll share it with you. You can snort from wherever you want… even from my—”
“No, thanks, I— uh.” Graham pulled back, grimacing. Now he was trembling. “I don’t do coke. Not anymore.”
Damon raised his eyebrows: “What do you do?”
Graham heard himself answer without thinking: “I drink.”
“Well, if you find my blow, professor, I’ll buy you a round of the best beer you can find.”
Graham almost said he didn’t drink anymore, that he had stopped years earlier after joining an AA programme when his mother died. Graham almost laughed, telling that kid that if he was lucky, they’d never end up in the same pub. Graham also almost stepped closer, just to test if his lips tasted like Daisy’s.
But he did none of that. He stepped back and gestured toward the door, signalling the boy to leave the room first. Damon huffed before walking out, and Graham followed behind, slower, less electric. He watched the blond walk down the hallway as if in slow motion. Watching him go was soothing, but still, he heard himself call out: “Hey, Damon!”
The boy turned, and Graham took advantage of the distance between them to pull the zip lock of powder from his own pocket, holding it up to show him — revealing that the drug had been with him all along.
ᓚᘏᗢ
Daisy Lane, 1970–1998.
Beloved daughter, friend, and wife.
Daisy Lane had died on that very day, twenty-seven years earlier. Far too soon, whispered the voices of that old neighbourhood where he once lived. A true tragedy, she was so young and had such a beautiful voice. Graham never forgot to mark that day on the calendar; he never forgot the cemetery’s address, and he never forgot to bring the tulips she loved. He went there more often than he liked to admit, insisting that everything be perfectly in place, though he feared who he might run into at her grave.
Either way, he was there, sitting with the bouquet of tulips in his hand.
“I dreamed of you today, Day,” he began, adjusting the sunglasses he had slipped onto his face. “It was nice. We were just kids again, and you climbed up Mr Westchester’s peach tree to grab those wonderful peaches only he had,” he said, with a smile threatening to break through his face.
“You gave me one as well. And they were so sweet,” he went on. “I think Mr Westchester may have passed away too. I don’t know, I haven’t spoken to anyone since… you know. But the last time I was there, he was really ill.” He ran his tongue across his lips. “So maybe you’ve already run into him up there. He probably still thinks you’re a little pest,” he laughed.
He stayed silent for a few moments. The cemetery was empty, and the day was far too bleak for such a place. It was overcast and very windy, but that had become a sort of tradition. On the day after Daisy’s death anniversary, it always poured with rain. Graham liked to believe it was the sky mourning with him.
“I can hardly wait to join you,” he confessed. “I try not to think too much… about death and all that, but it feels more and more present up here.” He tapped his temple with his finger. “You died, and I’m still here, condemned never to see you again. Fate isn’t very kind to me; it seems I simply can’t forget you. You’re so present in everything.”
The image of the boy, Damon, flashed in his mind.
“Something funny happened today,” he laughed. “I met a boy, one of my students, and I could have sworn I saw you in him. You’re so alike, Day, I swear. He even has your nose, your way of speaking… My stomach twisted straight away, I nearly threw up. You two would have got on, you loved skipping class.” He smiled again, feeling a sharp gust of cold wind on his face. “But he’s so young, and he was high. Twenty years old… and wasting his time on cocaine. Can you believe it? He seems like some spoilt rich kid.”
Graham swallowed hard. “I don’t know. For a few seconds, I felt as though… as though I were alive again. It was thrilling, hearing his voice, seeing how he moved, how he spoke.”
He turned his face towards the grave, searching for some kind of sign. “It was almost as if I recognised you in another body, another life.” He swallowed again. “You know, Day, I… I would love you in another life. In another body. Anyway, I just… I just wanted you back so that things could be good again. So that things could feel worth it.”
Like a river that swells slowly, his tears slid down his cheeks. Graham was simply so tired. His life now was in vain, nothing lifted him, nothing moved him. He hadn’t burned so fiercely since Daisy had gone, and now a spark appeared, so small, for someone who… who was so wrong for him. Perhaps he was projecting, perhaps he was only searching for some dose of adrenaline — it wouldn’t have been the first time something like that had happened. His tears tasted of bitterness, and now of shame at himself and his mad thoughts, at the way his mind kept circling back to that blond boy.
Damon, Damon, Damon.