WATERFALL by HEATH KING/FLOW (and MEMPHIS by THE BADLOVES). Story by Martina Medica.
I blink - and the Badloves disappear. Instead, on the stage, I see a ghost. Not Elvis, no. But a King nonetheless. Heath King.
I blink - and the Badloves disappear. Instead, on the stage, I see a ghost. Not Elvis, no. But a King nonetheless. Heath King.
You resolve to simply never think about Harry Styles, or One Direction, ever again.
I watch the funeral on my own, in bed, after recording it. I donāt want to watch it in real time with others around me, the people who donāt understand, who tell me I'm being silly.
Where I went to school, boys ā men ā didnāt dance. Not unless they were full of whisky bluster or beer bravado, anyway, and certainly not the way he was, his lithe body a study in confident, soft, expressive masculinity.
Every morning he switches on the radio to my favourite station. He hopes it will help. Most of the time I barely notice it.
Iām exhausted and out of breath. I donāt even know where I am anymore. Have I missed my stop? I wouldnāt know.
I wasnāt a fan of his music, but I went along to impress the new fella in my life.
I never learn her name and I never speak to her. I donāt change my tutorial time so that I can be in a tute with her, the way I had done in my American History unit the previous semester with a boy whoād caught my eye in much the same way.
Sometimes salvation can be found in the unlikeliest of songs. I find the one I want in the playlist, the one you call your dancing song, and turn it up loud.
If we had hours rather than minutes, we would listen to music through the tinny TV speakers, tucked up together under blankets on the mattress, arguing over the best of British.