Page 117 of Paper Roses

“No.” He tugs me to a stop. “Berlin is a beautiful city, but the reason I like exploring it, is because I’m with you. It’syouwho intrigues me.”

I scan his features. His eyes are tired, his face very pale, and his whole body looks weary. He coughs, and realisation suddenly dawns. “Oh mygod. Have you taken cold medicine again?” I demand.

“What?”

I gesture with my free hand. “Cold medicine makes you loopy. Do you remember when you took it before the Simpson-Brocklehurst wedding and thought the flower arrangements were moving? I had to do some quick talking when you attacked one with a rolled-up copy of the wedding service.”

“I’m sure they were moving. It was likeJumanjiwithout the rhinos.”

I pat his chest. “I’m sorry you’re poorly.” I realise I’m caressing his chest and go bright red. “Sorry,” I mumble.

He grabs my hand, and I look at him in surprise when he holds it to his chest. “No, stay,” he commands. “I don’t havea cold, Artie.” He pauses, shakes his head, and laughs grimly. “Fuck, this isn’t the way I?—”

A man bumps into us, and we break apart. He offers profuse apologies, giving Jed an admiring glance. Jed waves him off kindly, unperturbed. He’s in a strange mood today.

He smiles at me, and it’s the smile he reserves only for me—warm, soft, and genuine, his eyes twinkling. “Well, where are we going, mystery man?”

Thinking up fun places to take him is one of the things that keeps me going since we’ve been apart. Sometimes our adventures take us over the allotted hour, but we’re both careful not to mention it.

I check the number of the building beside us and draw him closer. “We’re here.”

He narrows his eyes at the building, and I can’t blame him. It’s a very nondescript structure painted a dreary grey. The front door is set between an osteopath and a tattoo parlour.

“This is Hauptstrasse 155, but fans keep removing the house number to take away as a memento.”

He looks intrigued, and I relish his attention. “Why?”

“Because this is where David Bowie lived in the seventies.”

“No,” he gasps. “Really?”

I smile and nod, pleased by his reaction. Jed has every record Bowie ever made and regularly proclaims him to be the greatest musician England has ever produced.

He gazes up at the building again with wide eyes. “I’d read about the place, but I’ve never been here before. It’s not what I’d have imagined.”

“When he came here, he was finished in the music world because drugs were destroying him. The city built him back up.” I grin at him. “Guess the name of his flatmate and collaborator when he lived here?”

I’m pretty sure that he already knows the answer, but he just smiles, his eyes eating me up. “Tell me, wise one.”

“Iggy Pop.”

“You’re joking!”

I shove him gently. “You can’t fool me. You already knew that.”

“Maybe. I like the Berlin material.”

“Me too.”

He looks startled and yet pleased. “You’ve been listening to him?”

I nod. I started it as a way to still feel close to Jed, but I’ve come to love the man’s music.

He looks around. “So, did they go to that café?” he asks, pointing to a café farther down the street. Chairs and tables are set up outside it, but they’re empty on this wintry afternoon.

“Yes. I think that was the first openly gay and lesbian café in modern Berlin, and they came here for breakfast most mornings. Bowie recorded ‘Heroes’ in the city. This was his second chance, and I like that he took it.”

Jed’s gone very still, and I look at him curiously.

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