Page 129 of I Can't Even Think Straight

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a light brown, new-looking wooden desk

with a matching chair of the same wood,

and a mirrored built-in wardrobe

the height and width of an entire wall.

It looks like there’s a mirror world.

I look into my own eyes and wonder

what might be different on the other side.

“It looks like a showroom,” I say,

unable to mask my disappointment.

“And where’s your guitar?” I ask.

“Do you keep it in the wardrobe?

Are you a closeted musician?”

I joke but no one gets it.

I guess it wasn’t as funny

to them as it was to me.

“Wait and see,” says Obi,

with a hint of mischief.

“This isn’t the last stop of the tour.”

He takes me by the hand.

“I always save the best for last.”

He gives my hand a squeeze.

Maybe it’s just in my mind,

but it seems a bit suggestive.

Obi keeps hold of my hand

and keeps smiling back at me

as we trail him downstairs

and through the kitchen,

to the far end of the garden

where there’s another building.

“Welcome to the studio,” says Obi proudly.

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