your city gave me asthma // Wilbur Soot

thirty-seven

"Hey, come in,"

"Thanks," I mumble, stepping into Wilbur's room. It's very neat, but the extra storage of not having a roommate helps, I'm sure. It reeks of cigarette smoke, though, and I notice the small candle lit on his desk to probably help.

"I guess we'll sit on the floor?"

I nod as I observe his room. The baby blue guitar I gave him for his birthday stands in the corner. There's a framed picture of the whole group, including me, on his desk. A picture of him and his mom when he was younger. Plenty of posters from different artists and bands. Very similar to his room back in London, minus the pictures of me scattered all around.

Wilbur sits on the floor, leaning against his bed, his guitar in his lap. I sit opposite of him, leaving just a couple feet between us. I open my sketchbook to a fresh page and lay my charcoal.

"You don't have to pose, just play and pretend I'm not here."

He nods and looks down at his guitar, plucking randomly at the strings. "Do you remember that paper ring I made you?"

I nod. That was nearly a year ago. "I still have it in my London memory box."

"I miss that class."

I nod again in agreement. The entire class, we would just flirt with each other and talk endlessly, always annoying the teacher and other students.

"Want to hear one of my songs I'm gonna release?"

"Sure," I say. I need to know all of his songs. I need to know if he's singing about other girls, and who those other girls are.

"Alright. It's called 'I'm Sorry Boris.'"

I can't help but grin at him as he adjusts the capo. "Like, Johnson?"

"Exactly," He says with a chuckle before beginning to pluck the strings. Those gorgeous calloused fingers. I really never appreciate them enough.

"I figured out what can move me
It's trains and hugs, planes and sushi
And I'm sorry, but Boris, I'm leaving
I'm not good for anyone here
We reached the end of a decade
Greenwich morphs to an arcade
Suffolk turns into a highway
Up to Hamlet's a tax break
New Islington, a headache
And Richmond's still shit
I can't believe that I'm leaving
I can't believe that I'm leaving
I don't think I want to leave you
I don't think I want to leave you here alone
But they'll knock down the pubs before helping you
And burn down your towers before helping you
They'll charge for your healthcare before helping you
They'll make you jump under trains before helping you
And even though I'm finished, I'm not quite done with it
No matter how far I run south, I'm always there
My lovers, my colleagues, my best friends and enemies
I don't think I want to leave you."

As he finishes, I look up from my sketchbook and frown at him. "It's beautiful. Depressing and beautiful."

"That one is more lighthearted, I think."

"That is one of the happier ones?" I scoff. Maybe he really was just as depressed as me. Or still is.

He smiles at me and pulls out his phone. "There's another one like Amnesia that's super depressing that I'm not putting out. It's called Screensaver. I can play it after we eat. What do you want?"

"I'm fine with whatever. I'm not super hungry."

Wilbur taps away on his phone for a few minutes before setting it down. "I just got us a pizza."

"Cool," I say, continuing to draw him. I just have the basic, rough shape of him and his guitar so far, and I start to detail his face. It hurts so much to look at his face, knowing I can't kiss him. I have to just pretend I'm fine without him.