It begins with the lights. Blues and purples cut the hazy smoke and Gilbert wants to reach out and touch them, wondering if they would feel like silk when he did. His head is spinning and his chest is aching; he absently rubs a hand over his chest and imagines that he can touch his vacant heart. The pounding of drums runs through the floor and up to his temple in a feverish rhythm, the drums, the drums.
It's done done done he's gone gone gone -
No. It begins with a letter, it begins with walls the colour of shells, the colour of bones, the colour of nothing. Gilbert hasn't heard his mother tongue in years but a phrase rises unbidden to his mind - aller Anfang ist schwer. All beginnings are hard and Gilbert holds too many of them, he stacks them on shelves and lets them gather dust.
Where will I get the money, what flowers should I get?
Correction. It doesn't begin with lights, or letters or 2 am coughs, it begins with a girl. She's moving and Gilbert can't stop looking at her, unable to comprehend her shouting but knowing that the curve of her lips would fascinate any renaissance painter for hours. The thought comes and goes, his head pounds, why did he come here, what has he done -
What's a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this? Have I seen you before? Are you good with flowers?
Like a house of cards Gilbert collapses into Elizavetas arms.