On a Balcony in Hackney

Isobel walked through the darkness of palm fronds and Tiki torches. She lit a cigarette and watched as the smoke billowed upwards into the fire-red night sky. She walked to the balcony overlooking the blue abyss of the apartment rec area, the bean-shaped underground pool, the neon blue 'artistic' lighting. She hated living here. Almost as much as she hated the student union's idea of a fun movie night. She watched inside as the boys dressed like foot ballers out on the prowl, cheered as Nicholas Cage jumped from the exploding wreckage of something airborne, a blimp, a chopper, a spontaneously combusting commercial jet? Who really cared.
"How did Nicholas Cage ever get a career any way?" a voice to her right sneered.
"He was the nephew of Francis Ford Coppola," Isobel responded automatically, then realising she was not alone on the balcony turned and saw the dark figure standing next to her.
"Sorry, I thought you saw me here," the figure offered.
"Hi," Isobel said, awkwardly turning back to stare at the fascinating burning process of her lit cigarette. She saw him take a sip from his bottle in her peripheral vision. She looked sideways and discreetly took in a pair of black gusseted Chelsea boots and a pair of painted on black jeans.
"I think the hair of Nicholas Cage should probably get its own billing in the credits," Isobel said, deadpan.
"The bald mullet is a defining moment in cinematic history it is true," the figure said.
"As defining perhaps, as a slap in the face of sight," Isobel added dryly.
The figure laughed, and inched himself closer.
"What are you doing here?" The figure asked.
"Making sure my house-mate doesn't decide to bring the University football team back to our place for some form of wall knocking entertainment."
"She sounds lovely."
"Yep, her parents should be proud," Isobel said and tapped the ash deposit from her cigarette to the ground, she noticed her scoop necked t-shirt was hanging too low down her chest and she quickly lifted the fabric above the definition of her breasts to feel more comfortable.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
"I'm going to this show on Kingsland High Street and waiting for my girlfriend in there to say goodbye to her friends, she's been in there for a half hour now."
"Maybe she likes bald mullets?"
"Maybe she also likes engineering students with a predilection for words like matriculate."
"Maybe she just doesn't like you."
"That's been crossing my mind," the figure reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a pouch of rolling tobacco and lifted a paper to his lip, letting it rest there.
"What's the band?" Isobel asked.
"This noisy little band from Scotland that sound a bit like Suicide."
"Ahhh, I don't know Suicide."
"Yeah, this Scottish band sound a lot like them."
The figure lit his cigarette and took a drag. Isobel dropped her butt to the ground and placed her hand down on the railing. The figure put his hand down absently on the rail so close to Isobel's, that she could feel the warmth his skin was emitting. She felt the breath lift in her chest.
"I wish I knew them," Isobel said. "It'd be nice to say I like suicide."