The Armchair on the Bradford Road (Extract) Zoe Hammick The sun had turned in hours ago - as had the rest of the neighbourhood (and, probably, city) - but the moon seemed to be enjoying its time to shine on summer’s nocturnal nuisances. The barbeque smoke that guided the garden into night had withered away to a thin vapour in the stars, conquered by an embering fire. Chairs - cushioned, wooden, plastic - were occupied by tired or blethering teens. The grass stamped to a canvas of brown and green; a bee hummed in between bodies, the buzz hardly competing with the blare of some ket pop song - assumingly Boyzone. A group of girls belting out the lyrics far too excitedly supported this deduction. Dancers were dotted everywhere like a pointillism painting, chatter reaching space and back. Me and my friends were sat by the music player, indexes twitching towards the skip button - there must have been something decent hidden in the playlist. Rowan had been trying to distract herself by giggling at some kid starfishing on the floor baked like a cake; Jeanie obligingly laughed along. Mixed with addled humour and the high-pitched harmony of five grown men, my ears started filling with blood, ready to burst - such sweet relief when the song melted into a steady beat. Before the riff even had the chance to kiss our drums, Rowan was on her feet - an electric bolt straight to the guffer exclaiming loudly and forcing Jeanie up by the hand. She pulled their torsos together, palms as vines, their steps perfectly aligned to each other and the beat: looking so peaceful, mumbling the lyrics, for a few moments we were all content just watching them waltz into wonder. “I’m sure you’ve heard it all before but you never really had a doubt!” I sang, parachuting into the slow dance - the others huddling in as a fourth, fifth and sixth wheel. “I don’t believe that anybody feels the way I do about you now.” Feet overlapped, inharmonious voices mingled, bodies bumped yet we didn’t care - we never really did. A smile stretched across Elf’s lips - the Cheshire cat he is - ginger sticking to his moistening forehead; Sage was beside, bouncing as if to meet his impossible altitude, their short locks flopping in and out of their eyes. My arms looped around Will and Rowan’s necks as I savoured every snippet of their numbing happiness. “And all the roads we have to walk are winding.
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