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You were a stranger in my phone book
I was actin' like I knew
'Cause I had nothin' to lose
It doesn't matter where and when it happens, actually.
It's like I’ve known you forever.
It's like you’ve come to my place many times before - it's like you’ve always been there.
(Like you’ve never left.)
I could tell the exact shade of your skin under your clothes long before you took them off. Yet, when you did, I didn't expect it to be so pale, compared to the brick-colored tan that covered the rest of your sun-kissed body. It’s the color that all the Spaniards seem to have - the color of the clay on which you love to give your all.
I, in comparison, am quite fair-skinned.
"Fair skin and light eyes. I like it,” you said - a simple statement of fact - as you rolled the hem of my shirt between your fingers, slowly lifting it over my belly. Then you paused, looking into my eyes as if asking for my permission.
There was no need - I kissed you right away.
Right now — it could be an hour as well as a day later; time has simply stopped making sense — you are sitting in the corner of my couch, one leg folded under your body, the other swinging limply over the edge. You’re scrolling something on your phone, wearing nothing but your white socks. Not the usual tennis socks - these ones are slightly longer, reaching almost below your knees. They make you look like a schoolgirl - all shyness and shiny smiles.
I’m sinking in my armchair placed right in front of the couch - two fingers on my temple, thumb under my jaw to keep myself from staring at you in awe, mouth ajar, still slightly stunned by what has just happened between us to think straight in the first place.
I didn't remember sex could be so good.
I didn't think there still was any wonder left in me. Not at my age.
"I'm starving," you mewl all at once, looking up at me plaintively. “Aren’t you?”
I don't reply, distracted by the shape of your mouth that’s magnificently sulky, like that of a child throwing a tantrum. Ah, what a huge mistake to associate you with that image: it makes me feel even more like a profiteer of defenseless children.
Except that you are not defenseless, and you are not a child - not at all.
You know how to scratch and bite. In fact, you’ve proved to be a tougher nut to crack than I thought at first. You gave me something to marvel at, old as I am - one last wonder, maybe, and I should just thank you for that, my boy.
"Take a look in the fridge," I say, as you keep staring at me and waiting for a response. “There must be something left in there."
You look too tired to get up from the sofa, actually - almost drained, after three hours of making love. I’m quite happy I’m not the only one who’s feeling exhausted.
I would personally go get you something to eat if you asked me. But you don’t - and it’s better this way, my God, otherwise you would be the one to look at me wide-eyed, puzzled by my unexpected act of kindness.
I would gladly do it, in truth. Perhaps, I would even love to spoil you, child - as if you were a fickle Hispanic prince and I were the servant devoted to a sorrowful but voluntary adoration. I know, no one would expect Novak Djokovic to be submissive, and happy to be so - and you least of all, I suppose. But you don't know me any more than everyone else does - you don't know me at all, Carlitos. And that is the heart of the matter.
“Okay. You sure you don’t want anything?"
You uncross your legs and slowly get up from the couch. It’s impossibile to look at your naked body without feeling some kind of suffering. I see you shivering in the dim light of the room, lit only by a lamp in the corner, even though you try to play it cool and not to show it.
"No, thanks, I'm fine. Put this on, by the way.”
I hold out to you the only thing I find at hand: my sky-blue Lacoste T-shirt, picking it up straight from between the pillows on the sofa, all crumpled from accidentally sitting on it. It’s the one you were desperately yanking at, trying to make me take it off just a few minutes ago, as your breath quickened and my kisses set your sweat on fire.
I’m pretty sure I said once: enough with the Spaniards. I remember I swore it to myself, some time ago. However, you guys must have a taste that whets my appetite, and I have never been myself the kind of person who misses an opportunity.
You take my shirt and slip it over your head without objection. Maybe I should hand you some underwear too, but - fuck, as you stomp towards the kitchen, whistling a song I’ve never heard, my sky-blue Lacoste on, the white socks on your feet and your bare ass swaying at every step - you really are the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in a long time. Just too good to even think of hiding it from view.
I remember when I was your age. I remember what it was like, then. Seems like yesterday. Instead, it only takes a few years off and you find yourself out of the game for good.
Time is unforgiving.
While you’re fumbling loudly with the fridge door, I glance at the clock on the coffee table: it’s midnight sharp. You came here at nine o'clock - unannounced, already out of breath with desire. You gave me no escape, neither time nor chance to decide whether to give you what you wanted or not. I wanted it too, just like I wanted it the first time.
Thought I was the one in charge, hell yeah. It's incredible how quickly tables turn.
A vibration coming from the pocket of my pants distracts me from my thoughts. The pants are the only thing I have on at the moment. I put them back on out of modesty, as soon as everything was over - just out of modesty.
Because you’re a young and shameless puppy, but I’m definitely an old decent dog.
I completely forgot my phone was there, in the back of my pocket, while I was taking care of you. Now I take it out and read the message on the screen. I freeze for a long moment.
“Is Carlos with you?”
Juanki. Of course…
Life always reminds you that you cannot get out of it unpunished.
Fuck.
“Who's texting you?"
I didn’t hear you come back. I turn around, shoving my phone even deeper into my pocket. You’re standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, a carton of milk in your hand. You look curious, rather than suspicious.
I raise an eyebrow, ignoring your question the way I do so well.
“Milk? Seriously?… You could have chosen something more nourishing, since you skipped your dinner..."
You shrug your shoulders casually, already forgetting about your question. It's one thing I love about the Spaniards: they seem to forget quickly. If they also forgive that quickly, well - to this day, I’m still not one hundred percent sure.
"I like milk," you say flatly. "Especially before going to bed."
I stare at you in silence as you lift the carton to drink straight from it, scanning the tone of your voice for a mischievous note - but finding none. Malice is in the eye of the beholder, as the saying goes - it’s in my eye.
Again, I feel too old to get caught up in such a complicated thing. Yet, I’m already in, somehow, neck-deep. I’m afraid I’m already pretty screwed up - Juan Carlos' message proves it all.
"You can't stay over. You know… right?" I speak softly, keeping my tone under control as you slowly come to sit next to me on the arm of my chair. I reach up automatically and hold you tight around your waist, trying instinctively to smooth out the harshness of my words with my touch.
You don't say anything for several minutes. You take a few more sips of milk and then slowly lower the carton, running the back of your hand over your mouth.
“Yes, I thought so, Novak.”
This time I don’t need to be a genius to guess the bitterness in your voice. You keep your eyes cast down, fixed on the carpet. Your thumb nail scratches the opening of the milk carton over and over again, almost obsessively.
"Juan Carlos will be worried about you," I say. Trying miserably, shamefully, to find a good excuse. You know that too. "He will be wondering what you’ve gotten yourself into.”
"I am an adult, I know how to take care of myself. I don’t need to account for my private life.”
Adult. Why does the word sound so funny on your lips right now?
"Would you like to stay the night?"
I don't know why I asked you. It’s not even remotely conceivable that I would let you stay with me - never, not even for a second, did I think of making an exception for you. Perhaps, it was the bitter grimace on your lips, the one you don't usually have, or your furrowed eyebrows, or your long straight eyelashes stubbornly pointed downwards, fleeing my gaze, that made me give in to sympathy.
Sympathy. I don’t like the word. I also find it an extremely uncomfortable feeling, most of the time. I thought I’d lost it years ago, along the way, but I was wrong.
Maybe you remind me too much of the first one I fell for not to indulge in some tenderness, in spite of myself. I think that's your greatest weapon against me - and if only you were aware of it, you could learn how to use it against me.
You could destroy me if you were a little less yourself, Carlitos. If only you were a little older - a little smarter, a little more like me. But I’m still the old fox here - luckily for me, I got experience on my side.
"I'd love to. Yes,” you say hesitantly, glancing at me, even if only fleetingly, between your eyelashes. "But only if you want it too."
How can I tell you that, even if I happen to sleep with strangers sometimes, I never allow them to stay and share the bed with me? Only once did I slept with a man - who is not a stranger, and never was - and that time it was just sleeping, in fact, as chaste as babes in the woods, and it was better than any sex to me.
But you don't need to know that, of course.
“Well…” I say, taking my time while stroking your back up and down. I feel the strong columns of muscles twitch around your spine. "It's not that I don't want you here, chico. It’s just... I'm a lone wolf, you see. I have my own rhythms, my own habits. I'm not used to sleeping with other people, it hasn't happened since..." I pause, reflecting on it, “…since I was still married to Jelena, probably.”
Well, it’s not exactly true. The thing with Rafa happened after my divorce, so let’s just call it a... poetic license. You don't need to know everything, by the way - especially the part involving me and Mister Nadal. The secrets of our time belong to us and no one else.
“But… I won't be bothering you," you continue, stubbornly. Your obstinacy is almost touching. "I promise. I'm leaving early tomorrow morning. You won't even hear me breathing.”
I laugh, stroking the hair on the back of your neck. "Not even breathing? Sure as hell. I bet you're a snorer. As well as a pain in the ass, of course.”
"That's not true," you protest, feigning offense, and pretend to throw a punch at me. I easily block it by grabbing your fist in my hand. You drop it, laughing - my fingers are still tightly wrapped around yours but we both pretend not to notice. "As a child I used to be a sleepwalker, actually,” you continue, in a dreamy voice. “Now, I tend to fret in bed just a little before falling asleep, at most. Alvaro told me that, and so did Juan Carlos. But here’s the trick: you just put a pillow by my side and you’re done.”
For a moment I picture you small and young - younger than ever - in my mind. A child, playing all day with your beloved siblings, then listening in awe at your mother’s bedtime stories with sleepy little faces. I know pretty well what you looked like back then, because I saw some old photos of you. And then I wonder about your relationship with Juan Carlos - how does he know that tiny thing about you? - but that’s a road on which I don’t really want to venture out right now. It’s too much, even for me.
(“Is Carlos with you?”)
My heart rumbles. I feel like a worm. Am I?
“No way, chico," I say, bobbing my head. I keep on smiling - to sugar the pill, of course. “Let’s go our separate ways, at least for tonight. I feel responsible for you.”
I don't know where the last sentence came from, but I could have spared it - it sounds out of tune at the exact moment it leaves my lips. Am I responsible for Carlos Alcaraz? I’m definitely not obliged to. You’re nothing to me, and I am nothing to you. I never imagined we could get involved into this in the first place. So, why should I feel responsible for you?
Sometimes I think I've gotten so good at playing my character that it takes over even when it shouldn’t.
You snort, rolling your eyes. The carton of milk sways, dangerously in balance on your knees, drawing my gaze to parts of your body that I’d better ignore.
"You are all the same," you whine annoyed, "you all treat me like a child. And yet, I think I showed you that I am not, didn’t I?"
A sneaky look, a blush that makes your cheeks turn purple. That’s the only hint, on your part, of what has just happened between us, nothing more - despite your apparent effrontery I’m sure that you would never dare to broach the subject face-to-face, not as long as the lights are on and your defenses still too high.
Not as long as you have to look me in the eye.
"If you're not a child, stop acting like one."
I didn't mean to be rude, but probably I was - again. I see the light turn off in your eyes, replaced by an outraged sadness, and I immediately feel the impulse to console you. Because you’re so young and it’s just so unnatural to see you sad. Your face should only smile, and never veil in melancholy, or cloud with tears.
I grab your chin, forcing your head to turn towards me until you meet my gaze, even though you’re clearly struggling to avoid it. At that moment the phone in my pocket starts vibrating again. I ignore it, but I know you can hear it all the same.
"It's getting late, Carlos," I say. Calling you by your name. Not Carlitos, not chico, no diminutive. Just your name. One of the rare times I allow myself to. I know you’re secretly keeping track of those times. "You have to go home. You can't make people wait for you and worry.”
"It's Juan Carlos, isn't it?" you say, immediately guessing who’s looking for me so obsessively. I hesitate a second too long before denying, so it’s easy for you to find out the truth. "Is it because of him that you don't want me to stay?"
"That could be one of the reasons, but it’s not the main reason, in any case. There would be others. It's better that you don't stay here, Carlos, really. Trust me."
It’s clear from your face that you don't fucking trust me a bit. And you’re right. My phone, meanwhile, keeps vibrating in the silence between us.
"You could answer," you whisper, without taking your eyes off me. "Or let me do it in your place. If it's really Juan Carlos, I'd know what to say to him."
Juanki's face slowly appears in my mind, as distinct as if I had him in front of me at this precise moment. I grimace, imagining his expression if I accepted his call.
"Sorry, but I think it’s better not."
An old dog knows when it's time to retreat, to throw the enemies off track.
"All right," you groan, sighing and rolling your eyes, and I know I won once again. “All right. I'll look for my clothes and leave, then."
"Do you want any help?" I almost hate the fact that my voice suddenly sounds so cheerful - so relieved.
You shrug, getting up from the armrest. I feel the warmth of your body fade away like a flame that slowly goes out. "No, I'm a grown up child, right? I can do it myself."
I bit my tongue - partly not to laugh, partly not to tell you that you’re only proving the opposite by doing so.
I should get up too, by the way. Put back in the fridge the milk carton you left on the floor, near the sofa. Instead I stay still, watching you wander around my living room, searching for your clothes scattered everywhere, and then follow the messy trail that leads to the bedroom. The door is still ajar, the light of the lampshade coming from inside.
God, what have I done.
I get the surreal impression that God would forgive me for bedding Carlos Alcaraz, but Juan Carlos wouldn't. I know my boy, I know old Juanki. It’s too late, in any case.
You briefly reappear on the living room door. Coughing, holding a hand around your throat. Again, a shiver runs through your body like a sinuous wave - your body still naked from the waist down.
"You should put something else on, besides those socks," I say. I say it for myself, of course – I’m at the edge of my self-control, I can almost feel all the nerves in my body creaking with tension and I don't know how long I can tolerate your graces being exposed in plain sight while holding it together.
"I can't find my underwear," you say nonchalantly, shrugging. And I know it’s a lie, it’s your little revenge against me - one I fully deserve.
"Look again," I reply, without taking the bait. "Don't get cold.”
"I've already caught cold," you rebuke. “Too late. I also got a cough, can’t you hear?”
You cough a few times. The temperature in the room is low indeed - I only realize now. The heating should be switching on soon automatically. And all this time you’ve been strolling around my place almost naked. Cheeky, reckless - desperate - and naked.
I feel your despair as if it were mine - it was mine, long ago, when I was standing in your shoes, in front of someone who didn't want me, who wanted someone else.
Speaking of sympathy, again.
I learned that sympathy is a luxury that a man has to be able to afford, otherwise it does no good.
"I have cough syrup in the bathroom cabinet," I say. "Help yourself."
You look at me in disbelief, shaking your head through a smile. "You'd do anything to stop yourself from feeling guilty, wouldn't you, Novak?"
My voice dies in my throat, because I heard those words before, in another time, in another place. From other lips. They never ceased to haunt me - and never ceased to be true.
You disappear in the bathroom before I can say anything else.
Finally I get up from the armchair - my body carved a comfortable hollow in the velvet. I feel sorry to abandon it. When I put my bare feet on the ground I realize that you were right: it’s really cold, the heater should already be up and running.
I walk across the room to check the thermostat. I realize that I accidentally switched it off, yesterday perhaps, or this morning on my way out. I turn it on. As the system buzzes wildly before becoming operative, I look out the window. Outside it must be only a few degrees above zero. Winter’s in full swing. Yet, in your torrid embrace, I felt warmer than ever.
Maybe I’m not too old for this.
Maybe it’s going to snow.
I turn around. I grab the milk carton from the floor. I feel some vertebra creaking in the bottom of my back while I bend over, as if to make fun of my illusions. Without thinking, I place my mouth where you put yours and take a sip. Vegetable milk, the only one I’ve been drinking for years. Strange that you didn't comment on it, even though I’m quite sure it’s not part of your routine diet.
I walk to the kitchen and put the milk back in the fridge. My eye falls on the middle shelf, where there is some tofu and also some carrots that I would have eaten for dinner, hadn’t you busted in on me like this.
Actually, I could still have them for dinner.
I could cook. For me and for you. I’m not that bad. On the contrary, I’m quite good in the kitchen.
I could say: stay. Let’s eat. Let’s sleep together. We can fuck, sure, but not just that.
I could, but actually… I can’t.
That's why I am too old. I am definitely too old for this - to pretend to love again.
I close the fridge door. I listen attentively to the sudden silence of the place: no more noise from the bathroom. Frowning, I walk barefoot towards it. Empty. I move to the bedroom, more and more bewildered. I stand in the doorway, peering through the door.
Your silhouette, curled up under the covers, sways to the slow, steady rhythm of your breathing. When I approach, I realize that you lied to me. Of course you snore, Carlitos. Quite loudly too.
I sit softly on the edge of the mattress next to your body, not knowing what to do. I look at you in the faint light of the lampshade. You sleep with your lips slightly parted, your forehead now smooth and relaxed under the bush of hair that falls over it. On the bedside table the cough drop bottle. I put it close to my nose, breathing in the smell and the memories that it brings along - childhood and drawn-out nights spent shivering with cold in the big bed with Marko and Djordje, one on each side.
Being a child has been very different for me and for you, Carlitos. But this is also one of the things - of the many things - that I could not tell you. You wouldn't understand.
You're a boy from another generation, you can't share my past. There’s nothing we have in common.
Even with Rafa, even with Roger I didn't really have a past in common. But somehow they could understand me all the same; we were children in the same era, although in different conditions, and we grew up in the same years. We share the weight of time. The one that you, on the other hand, cannot yet feel - how blessed are you, and you don’t even know it.
I put the bottle on the bedside table again. You move in your sleep with a grunt. An eyelid rises halfway, and a pupil sails around drowsily before stopping on me.
"I'm so sleepy," you murmur, dragging your words.
I giggle. This time it’s my turn to shake my head.
"Maybe I should have told you that cough syrup also has a mild sedative effect."
You yawn so widely that you almost dislocate your jaw.
"Can you tell Juan Carlos that I’m ok? He will think I crashed my car somewhere. Knowing him, he could stay up all night waiting for me. Could you, Novak?”
I nod, stroking your forehead. You need to be reassured right now, I understand that.
"Thank you," you whisper.
I bend down to kiss you. I don't know why I do that, after all I said. After all the painstaking soul-searching I’m so proud of.
Your tongue slides lazily against mine. I taste cough syrup on it. It reminds me once again of Serbia and endless mornings without sun and without school, when it was snowing and the wind was blowing hard outside, while everything was silent inside the frozen house. Mom and dad at work, us children in bed with a fever: under one blanket for three, we were imagining a different world to live in.
But you’re so hot, Carlitos, and relaxed under my sheets - you don't know anything about the hard and difficult times I went through. You’re comforting, in a way. You make me forget a part of myself.
You give me hope.
"Thank you," you repeat, when I leave your mouth. "Thank you, Novak."
This time I know it’s not for the promise. This time it’s just for the kiss.
As I tuck you in and turn off the light, slipping silently into the shadows, it occurs to me that you won in the end, somehow. You ended up getting what you wanted. I could never chase you out of my house, like a beaten puppy. Not now, not anymore.
Bravo, I think. There are not many who get something from me when I don't want to.
But you succeeded, somehow. You stayed over.
It’s not exactly what you wanted - that is sleeping with me - but, for this night at least, you will be the absolute master of my bed. Fair enough.
I take a pillow and two blankets and go to arrange a bed on the sofa. You’re already kicking and turning over in my sheets, already a prisoner of the world of dreams.
After an hour - or maybe just a few minutes - after brushing my teeth and slipping into my cold pajamas under the covers, surrounded by the darkness of the living room, I think again that I can't get caught up in this kind of things, not with you.
You’re young, I’m empty - I have nothing more to give from that point of view, not what you want. You deserve more.
(Clichés, they always sound so hollow - but sometimes they are true.)
I repeat the words in my mind, I promise myself I will tell you in the morning, talk to you, set the record straight once and for all - extinguish the absurd fascination you have for me, which I helped to feed myself.
I should know the consequences of my actions by now and be prepared to accept them, but sometimes it is easier to ride freely. And just enjoy the journey.
When I wanted to fuck you at first, I didn't think you could end up falling in love with me.
Or maybe - hopefully - it’s not me the one you’re in love with, Carlitos. I’m just a challenge, the one you can't have, what tickles your competitive streak and curiosity. That is only the semblance of a feeling - there’s nothing true about it, trust me when I tell you. I know enough about narcissistic wounds and obsessions by now. I ruined myself running after them for years.
You can still save yourself - and you would, if you chose Jannik. He is the right man for you. Not me. Never me.
I take out my phone, take a look at the messages. There are also two missed calls now. Always from Juanki. For a moment I’m tempted to ignore them - I made you a promise, okay, but I'm not the reliable type, am I? Everyone knows it. Another broken promise to add to all the others accumulated over the years would not be a great burden to me.
But then I see you again, your picture flashing through my mind: asleep in my bed, your tongue colored with milk and cough syrup, with no underwear but only your socks on. I can't remember why they are the only thing of yours I didn't take off while we were in bed; I vaguely recall I said: “Hey, you look great in those." Then you insisted on keeping them on the whole time.
You’re the purest and most innocent thing that has happened to me in years. Innocence - yes, the one thing I left behind. The one that Rafa and Roger and I left behind, never to get back. But you, you still have it in you. It is your gift.
It's because of your innocence that I give in. Not because I delude myself into thinking I can get mine back. That would be simply impossible.
I open Juanki's message. I type: "He's fine, he's sleeping." I press “send".
As simple as that. If only it were just as easy to breathe. Clear your mind. Clear your conscience.
Old Juanki will not take this well. He knows me, and I know him. I should be surprised that you told him the truth, that you were coming to me - but then again, I’m not, really: you're not the type to lie, Carlos. You're like Rafa before he was forced to do it - to lie - in order to protect Roger, essentially.
(Not me, never me.)
I think we're a bunch of fucked up old men. I wish you could save yourself, but I know it won't last long - the time to grow old comes for everyone, there's no escape for that.
Sex? It’s just smoke and mirrors. A brief illusion of being alive when you’ve already, inexorably, started to decay.
And yet I gave in to that illusion. Even then I did it for me, not for you, what were you thinking. I treated myself to a gift - you were the gift.
That guy, the redhead, doesn't know what he's missing out on by saying no to you time and again. I hope that hard head of his will realize it and come around in time - before it's too late. He’s had no rivals in your heart so far, he just needs to come to terms with his own fears and then he will have a clear path to you.
I almost envy him. It would be certainly easier for Jannik to get what he wants than it ever was for me in my time. For me, it was simply impossible to get to Rafa before Roger. No one has ever arrived before Roger, right?
The phone vibrates again. I'm almost afraid to read the answer, now.
"Tomorrow at nine am, training session. No apologies.”
I stare for a moment, dazed and confused, at Juanki's answer. I really didn't expect this. Insults, maybe. Recriminations, threats as well. But this apparent calm resignation is not like Juanki; it is not in his territorial and overprotective nature to leave the boy in my hands without a fight.
But there will be a time to make this clear too. All the knots come to a head, sooner or later. I'll face Juanki, just not now.
I give a thumbs up in response. I vaguely feel like a moron, but I'm too tired to try harder. I'm suddenly very tired. My eyes close by themselves. My body is wonderfully relaxed. I fall asleep right away.
I thought I would be the first in the morning to wake up and then I would have to get you out of my bed. Instead, for a curse or something else, I wake up to the already high sun filtering through the shutters. The house is quiet, the humming of the thermostat and of the fridge the only noises. For a couple of seconds it almost feels like being a child in Serbia again, at home from school because of bronchitis, but that illusion doesn’t last long.
As soon as I open my eyes I know immediately that you are gone.
I walk barefoot across the room, briefly popping in the bathroom to quickly rinse my face. It doesn’t look like mine in the mirror. Can a face change so much overnight? Yet, nothing happened. Nothing that hasn't already happened dozens of times with dozens of different people before you came into my life. Sex is like a script that can repeat itself indefinitely, with a limited number of variations that tend to repeat themselves too.
As I expected, my bed is empty. You really didn't make the slightest noise when you left. Good.
On the sheets, almost perfectly folded, there is my sky-blue Lacoste. It smells of you. It’s funny to think that you slept in it. I thought you were a hasty and messy young guy, but you’re not, actually - the problem is that I confuse you too easily with Rafa when he was your age.
On top of the Lacoste, folded too, there are your white knee socks.
A vibration - yet another - in the pocket of my trousers. The timing of your message is so unbelievably perfect that it makes me think you may be hiding in some corner of this house, spying on me and laughing.
"I noticed you like them. You can keep them. No big deal."
I raise my head to the ceiling and burst out laughing.
These modern kids... they will be the death of me.
You may think you have the upper hand with them, but before the end you find out that they are the ones who were pulling the strings all along. You just played their game, right from the beginning.
That’s the truth - I must confess: I'm an old dog now.
And these, these are new tricks.
... Fuck.
When the winter's in full swing
And your dreams just aren't comin' true
Ain't it funny what you'll do?
End