Will and George stood at the doorway, peering in to Brian’s bedroom.
“Brian! We’re off out. Sure you don’t want to come?” asked Will.
Brian just lay on his bed. The curtains were drawn. Something sad by Sigur Ros burbled away on the stereo.
“Pathetic,” said Will.
“Oh come on. It hit him hard,” said George. “She stole his heart.”
“And that’s why he’s not coming out? The big puff.” said Will.
“Look at him. He can’t come out like that, can he?” said George.
Will shrugged, unimpressed.
“She really took his heart.” said George.
“So now’s the time he should be out and about. Meeting new people. Having a flirt.” said Will. “He’s a lovely feller when he’s not moping around with a big cavity above his left nipple.”
“Yeah, but a gaping chest wound like that, it’s going to distract from his personality, no matter how winning.” said George.
Brian just lay there, immobile, with a big hole where he used to have ventricles and an aorta and all that useful stuff. Sigur Ros got incomprehensibly yet stirringly anthemic in the background.
“It is a massive wound, yeah, but… you know, this music won’t be helping. What is this shit?” said Will. “He should put some Newton Faulkner on. I wonder what she did with it. His heart, I mean.”
“Ate it, probably.” said George. “What? How do I know what she did with it? Wrapped it in foil and put it in her box of memories? Threw it out? Filled it with helium and carried it bobbing behind her like some grisly wet party balloon? Who knows?”
“So. He’s not coming out then.” said Will. “The big puff.” he reiterated.
“Not tonight,” said George. “Still, time heals all wounds. Give him a couple of days, he’ll be fine.” he added, philosophically.
They looked at the exit wound once more. It was crusted with dried blood and black cakey bits.
“Maybe a week.”
They left him to it.
Brian Isn’t Coming Out by Harris
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