— and the sun as beautiful as never —
i.
The lights of Vice City glossed us by as the cab cruised down the street - I nervously thumbed out a cigarette, offered one to Sutherland, he declined. We sat in silence as the washing lights of neon-lit bars pulled back to let the black of night rupture in. We both knew equally, in our lack of words, that we'd miss this place; but it was time to go. Caldwell played from the radio, an ironic juxtaposition, though probably the best we were going to get.
"Los Santos." I shot a glare over as Sutherland chose to speak, a cloud of smoke from my cigarette emanated his way - I extinguished the dancing flame of the zippo lighter, and squirmed about in the back seat as I haphazardly managed to slot it back into a pocket.
"Los Santos. The rich meth-heads?" My disapproval was clear, I didn't bother to even look at him now. A solemn glare returned to the cab window as the night seemed to draw in on us; a vice pushing us away from here.
"Come on, Reuben. Better to see the lime-light and check it out; free holiday." Sutherland was English optimism embodied, sat beside German cynicism in its purest form - we made a good pair, perhaps that was what kept us together for so long. I was irritable, the cabbie hummed annoyingly, some foreign tune I didn't understand.
He knew as well as I that my silence was concurrence. Agreement. We didn't speak another word all the way to the airport - two tickets, one way to a sun-soaked city in a country filled with sun-soaked cities. Something new.
I looked terrible in this Hawaiian shirt.
"You are the son of a GI bastard, an East German whore."
Reuben Hughes
Dessau, GDR
1987.
