The virility of Death as we know it.

I am sitting at my desk in the assembly. My Windsor knot's making me gag, so I loosen it and squint at the corner of the podium. Oh,it's him. Hair tied back neatly into a ponytail, and with tie fastened perfectly around his collar, he would have been just as attuned to a Pearl Jam concert than he was to this meet. I had met him three years earlier. He was so blase then. now he looks at his friends passively, his face neatly arranged into a mask, so that all people, high or low, cannot measure his attitude from his countenance.

When the meeting is over, I walk to his side and ask him whether he would like a drink. His face lights up. I didn't notice you, he says. Where were you?

Oh, I was hiding near the coffee maker. Spilled a little of it on my conscience.

We laugh and he proceeds to tell me of his life so far. He is not a very successful person. His grades are average and his projects are never turned in on time. He tells me of working with students of NSD, and I listen to him, amused. He seems happy. Unlike the last time, when his claws were out and he was baying for my blood. Because he thought I had wooed his girlfriend. Messy affair.

We exchange notes on the proceedings and then stop at a bar. I leave my shirt open at the collar, and ask for a mug of Heineken. He does the same. He looks at me and says,'So,how's it going with Michellia? Slept with her yet?'

If it had been anyone else, I would have shoved his head into the ice-box, but I shake my head. No. The whole friend-angle. He concurs, smiling to himself.

You were good today, Ayan. I really liked your views on some of the topics.

Thank you, thank you. (It's awkward. How do you talk to somebody whose girlfriend you have slept with? A childhood sweetheart at that? Maybe, I really am a bum woman-trafficker).

It's okay, you know. She left me for this guy who landed a place in Cornell. I knew she wasn't going to be mine anyway. Love hurts, man.

How are you holding up?

Fine. I mean, it was bad at first. I didn't take it very well. Refused any contact with humans. (laughs). But you gotta pull through. You gotta. She was everything. Light of my life, and all that shit. But, you know what, these things are better left alone. We men needn't bother with pointless human emotions. Otherwise, it chews up a hole in you the size of a Big Kahuna.

True, that. (uncomfortable silence)

He breaks down into aching sobs.

A Case of the Lonely Lips.

I'm bare-chested. I am Iggy Pop. I swing my tee over my head, and land on the eager,outstretched arms of the sweaty,fornicating crowd. I look outside the window. The city is quiet tonight. As I look into the mirror, and take the razor to tough stubble, I am reminded of my date tonight, with a girl who has maddeningly beautiful lips. The razor sears its cruel way through the hair, and the tufts fall to the wash in agony. The sex is good. A long time since I had a good time. I feel the cold edge of the blade as I dunk the razor in the shaving-water. My upper lip looks bruised. Form follows function. I come out of the bathroom, do a quick search around my room for my parka, wrap it around myself and feel the cold night air bite my exposed face. Come July, and the weather is almost pleasant. The streetlights are cold and flickering. The bodies around me moan as they weave in and out of focus. I go inside a bar, sit on the bar-stool and ask the bartender for a drink. He knows I'm underage, but he also knows I'm a regular. I come here with my father often and we exchange pleasantries with this soft-spoken man behind the counter. The Dandy Warhols. Good. He brings me white rum, with a dash of lemon. I look at my drink, then take a mindful sip. I wait for the date. Tonight, I'm the Passenger.