David Madore's WebLog: Gratuitous Literary Fragment #67 (improbable friends)

They were the strangest pair, Frank and Frank. I could never guess whether the two were mere friends or lovers—or perhaps something altogether different. Either way, their being together had always seemed supremely unlikely. I first met the elder during a short stay in Paris: by some odd coincidence we found ourselves sitting on the same bench in the jardin du Luxembourg and reading the same book, The Master and Margarita (in English, I must admit), so that got us talking. I learned that he was fresh out of Juilliard and touring Europe: he had just given a concert in the salle Pleyel after some time in Italy, and would be shortly on his way to the Concertgebouw in Amsterdam and then the Royal Albert Hall (no less). So quite naturally we arranged to meet again in London, and he met Frank in the meantime. That other Frank was a youngish street punk living with an old aunt somewhat north of Hackney (I suppose he was an orphan), and quite an adorable fellow once you got past the bright green mohawk and the unwashed smell. The two had exactly nothing in common. As much as Saint-Saëns and the Sex Pistols: I think that says it all.