The wall is brick, and very high, but its width has been torn down on either side.
Two men sit in silence on this wall. Four beautifully polished, black-shoed feet hang about a meter and a half from the ground; above each left shoe is an identical tattoo beneath starch white socks, and higher up, two breast pockets are initialed JS.
After a while, a voice, soft and lilting, worried: "You know you can't marry her."
Another voice, also quiet, also gentle, but deeper, more serious: "Oh, but I must."
There is a terrible moment of quiet.
Then, shaking,
"Why? Why must you?"
A pause. "Leaving her would cause a terrible argument."
The sigh is palpable. "Jerome."
The response is pained. "Jacques."
Light eyes meet dark.
"I'm sorry," says JS.
JS says, "I'm sorry, too."
And pale, clean, piano-playing fingers wrap around ink-stained hands beneath ink-stained sleeves.