DEERHUNTER

A snowy television set played German cinema with French subtitles. He switched channels. Alicia Keys sang, she'd been dubbed. Donald Sutherland spoke, he'd been dubbed. Alex lay back and stared at some quiet coloured tiles on the bathroom wall. Water rippled under the charred gold of the bridge. A jogger was circling the hotel, toxic footsteps trailing behind. Rats ate scraps of leftovers, chewing discreetly by the empty restaurant.

Alex had to get up early in the morning, 5 am, for family work. Yet he didn't feel tired, just slightly bored and discontent. There was no mini-bar to raid, no room service to call. He lit a cigarette, put on the Deerhunter CD that a girl back home had given him. It was the same as before. The solitary, ethereal glide of their pretty songs, reaching out from the internal womb to a soaring ecstatic space. He guessed Desire Lines was his favourite; Strokes-like chugging guitars and floating, blurred sighs. Or was it Helicopter, glowing with a luminous if claustrophobic passion. A state of continual longing. And who in the hell had brought along that greasy sax break to the party? Wait. Did he hear someone scratch and knock on the door? No, he'd let his imagination run fast, it was time for slow motion. He brushed his teeth and looked up at the moon for awhile.