Once they are finished stoking the fires of their passion, they turn, and walk out to the sun-baked Algerian street fronting the tenement.
In the distance, a tall young man walks towards them, then past them, to embrace another Englishman, before beginning a match of Olympic league tonsil hockey.
“Oh, Hal!!” The other Englishman swoons, as his lover hoists him into his arms, and carries him into the tenement, kissing him frantically the whole way.
Inside, Hal lays hotspur down upon the bed, and bends over him.
“Oh, Harry, you have robbed me of my youth!”
“Only the innocent bits…” As the two fall into each other’s arms, the heat of passion rising from them, they embrace, in a reverie soon to be culminated.
Outside, in the sticky heat of the african desert, a tall, proud black woman argues honor with a portly Englishman.
“But Darling, surely you understand how honor has no place in society, let alone in our personal lives?”
“Ah, but it does, for how else would you have robbed me of it, Jack.”
“A grand point, and one I am inclined to repeat…” Falstaff pauses in his lechery, “Where is that nephew of yours?”
“Oh, he’s run off with some friend of his, you know how boys are.”
“Oh... Lute, right?”
“Whatever, he’ll be fine without us around for a couple of hours.”
“Oh, you know you’re faster than that dear…”
As the two lovers enter their room of the tenement, the objects of their discussion pass by the door.
“Oh Guitar, you know I don’t love Hagar no more.”
“Then who?” Guitar turns to his friend, hands on his hips, his supple lips stretched into a knowing smirk.
"You. Always you. No one but you.” Milkman turns to his friend