#Famous dex songs about to drop skin

Since I last saw you I have decided to take that job I was telling you about, with Sledgehammer Theatre Co-operative and for the last four months we have been devising, rehearsing and touring with ‘Cruel Cargo’, an Arts Councilfunded spectacular about the slave-trade told through the medium of story, folk song and some pretty shocking mime. How are you? And how is Rome? The Eternal City is all very well, but I’ve been here in Wolverhampton for two days now and that’s felt pretty eternal (though I can reveal that the Pizza Hut here is excellent, just excellent). ‘“If on St Swithin it doth rain/Something dum-di-dum again.”’ ‘Well la-di-da,’ she mumbled into the pillow. ‘How come you know all this?’ ‘I went to school there.’ He’s buried outside Winchester Cathedral.’ ‘Raining where? It’s always raining somewhere.’ ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’ ‘Not meant to. If it rains today it’ll rain for the next forty days, or all summer, or something like that.’ ‘Stop staring up my nose then.’ She opened her eyes, blue and green, bright and shrewd. Is it love, d’you think?’ and she gave a low laugh, her lips tightly closed. ‘So, what do you reckon, Dex?’ ‘About what, Em?’ Plenty more faces out there.īut as he made his decision, her mouth stretched open into a wide smile and without opening her eyes she said: She’d be overweight and disappointed and would complain about him sneaking off without saying If he left now he would probably never see this face again, except perhaps at some terrible reunion in ten years’ time. No lipstick but soft, raspberry-coloured lips that she kept tightly closed when she smiled as if she didn’t want to show her teeth, which were a little large for her mouth, the front tooth slightly chipped, all of this giving the impression that she was holding something back, laughter or a clever remark or a fantastic secret joke. Smooth, pink mottled cheeks, pillows of flesh that looked as if they would be warm to the touch. With her eyes closed he found that he couldn’t recall their exact colour, only that they were large and bright and humorous, like the two creases in the corners of her wide mouth, deep parentheses that deepened when she smiled, which seemed to be often. There was a slight greasy sheen on the tip of her small, neat nose and a spattering of tiny red spots on her forehead, but these aside there was no denying that her face – well, her face was a wonder. Her chin was soft and a little plump, though perhaps that was just puppy-fat (or were ‘plump’ and ‘puppy-fat’ things you weren’t meant to say now? in the same way that you couldn’t tell her she had tremendous breasts, even if it was true, without her getting all offended).

#Famous dex songs about to drop skin

Her skin had a pallid puffiness that spoke of too much time in libraries or drinking pints in pubs, and her spectacles made her seem owlish and prim.

Her bottled-red hair was almost wilfully badly cut, alone in front of the mirror probably, or by Tilly whatsername, that loud,

She was pretty, but seemed annoyed by the fact. Why had he not noticed her until now? He examined her face as she slept. Until last night he had been under the impression that she was called Anna, and yet at the party he hadn’t been able to look away. But would he mind? He had managed perfectly well without her for four years. He wondered if she would mind, and presumed she would: they usually did. Of course leaving now would mean that he would never see her again. Instead he would pick out patterns in the grey Artex until she was completely asleep, then slip out and away without waking her. Careful not to wake her, he stretched his arm across, dropped the end of his cigarette into the mug of wine and stared up at the ceiling.

Dexter could see the pink of the new day seeping though the heavy winter curtains that came with the rented room. No reason why there shouldn’t be, they were there last time she looked: February 1987, Vince, a hairy-backed Chemical Engineer who had blown his nose on her pillowcase. She wondered if there were condoms in the mustard tin. The few times that she’d gone to bed with boys she had always ended up giggling or weeping and it might be nice to try for something in between. They’d both be sober by then, which wouldn’t make things any easier, but she might even enjoy it. Morning, after tea and aspirin, she might even find the courage to ask him back to bed.