#tile flooring company miami

[fabflooringsindia]

Gym Rubber Flooring Manufacturing & Exporter Company in Miami, USA

Fab Floorings India is a leading manufacturer and exporter of high-quality gym rubber flooring based in Miami, USA. Our gym flooring solutions are designed to meet the rigorous demands of fitness facilities, from commercial gyms to home workout spaces. We specialize in providing durable, safe, and aesthetically appealing flooring options that enhance the overall gym experience.

[topsteamer]

Carpet Cleaning in Doral

Get your carpet, floors and couches nice and clean before the holidays.

Appointments are still available. Don't miss out. Call us right now at 305-631-5757.

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Top Steamer

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[homeremodeladvice]

10 Best Home Remodeling Ideas for Florida Homes

Welcome, Floridian friends! Home remodeling in the Sunshine State is not just about style and aesthetics, it's also about functionality and making the most out of our unique tropical climate. From Miami's art deco flair to the casual, beachy vibes of the Gulf Coast, your home can be a reflection of all the beauty that Florida has to offer. So, whether you're looking to increase your home's value or simply want to refresh its look, here are the top 10 home remodeling and renovation ideas to consider.

1. Open Up for Natural Light Nothing says Florida living like abundant natural light. Consider large, impact-resistant windows that not only let in the sunshine but also stand up to our sometimes-fierce weather. Skylights are also a fantastic way to brighten up your space.

2. Optimize Outdoor Living Spaces Expand your living space to the outdoors by creating a seamless flow between indoor and outdoor areas. Think large sliding doors that open to a screened patio or deck. An outdoor kitchen or bar can be a fantastic addition for entertaining, and don't forget a comfortable seating area for those balmy evenings.

3. Coastal-Inspired Flooring Ditch the carpets and go for easy-to-clean and cool flooring options. Large, light-colored tiles or laminate flooring can give your home a coastal feel while also keeping it cool underfoot.

4. Embrace a Beachy Palette A fresh coat of paint can do wonders. Choose colors that reflect the seaside—soft blues, warm sands, and gentle greens. These hues not only lighten up your space but also create a calming atmosphere that pays homage to the Florida coast.

5. Update Your Kitchen with a Focus on Function The kitchen is the heart of the home. Add a touch of Florida with a backsplash that features sea glass colors, upgrade to modern appliances for energy efficiency, and consider an island that doubles as a dining space.

6. Incorporate Smart Home Technology With Florida's hot summers, smart thermostats and energy-efficient lighting can make your home more comfortable and save on energy bills. Automated hurricane shutters can provide peace of mind during storm season.

7. Refresh Your Bathroom with a Spa Feel Turn your bathroom into a personal spa with a rain shower head, a deep soaker tub, and natural stone or tile. Think about installing a skylight to bathe your bathroom in natural light.

8. Landscaping for Curb Appeal and Climate Invest in landscaping that not only boosts curb appeal but is also drought-resistant and suited to Florida's climate. Native plants will thrive and help to conserve water.

9. Create a Mudroom or Drop Zone With the beach close by, a designated space to drop towels, sandals, and beach gear can keep the rest of your home sand-free and organized. A mudroom with built-in storage can be a game-changer.

10. Energy-Efficient Additions Consider solar panels for a greener footprint and lower energy bills. Florida's sunny days can be harnessed to power your home, and many solar companies offer installation with little to no upfront cost.

Conclusion Florida homes have the unique advantage of being located in a beautiful, diverse state with weather that allows for year-round enjoyment of outdoor spaces. Whether you're making small changes or undertaking a major remodel, these ideas can help you make the most of your Floridian home, combining style, functionality, and sustainability. Remember, a successful remodel not only adds value to your home but also enhances your lifestyle. So, embrace the Florida charm and make your home a personal paradise!

[miraclecleaningspecialties]

Website : https://www.miraclecleaningspecialties.com/

Address : Baton Rouge, Louisiana, USA

Miracle Cleaners are your go-to expert for everything clean in the fields of air ducts, roofs, and flooring. We can tackle any job in any setting, including residential and commercial. We've got you covered! There is no job too large for us to handle. We pride ourselves in being honest and upfront with our customers to build quality and professionalism of service that is unmatched. We strive to make each customer a customer for life by upholding the highest standards of quality in the industry and completing each service by getting the cleanest outcome possible.

Our Services:

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Yelp : https://www.yelp.com/biz/miracle-cleaners-baton-rouge-2

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[olirobbinson]

What to Expect When Hiring Commercial Cleaning Expert?

The cleaning areas included in an office or commercial building’s cleaning service are extensive. Upkeep of the various building amenities may also be included in the service. In other cases, the scope of the services is broadened to encompass various types of commercial and industrial buildings, such as hospitals, colleges, temples, and warehouses.

Restaurant Cleaning Services Fort Lauderdale Fl focus on keeping workplaces neat and tidy so they make a good impression on clients and customers. The following are some of the specific services provided by a cleaning company for offices that might help you achieve this goal:

Services for washing floors

In addition to the standard sweeping and mopping, this service may also include waxing and polishing. In the interest of giving the floor a fresh appearance, this task may also involve removing the old wax and polish and replacing it with a new coat. Chemicals as well as other cleaning tools, such floor polishers and buffers, may be used in the process.

Remember that there are numerous floor wax & polish options, and you should pick the one that is designed for the specific floor surface you will be cleaning. Several types of floors cannot be waxed or polished with others. The improper kind could do more harm than good by scratching the floor while it cleans.

Wooden floors require special attention since they can be damaged easily (especially if the wood has not been properly treated) by scratches and stains. Simple sweeping and mopping should be sufficient to keep a well-maintained wooden floor free of dust and debris. Wooden flooring, on the other hand, need special care, therefore you should not use anything abrasive on them.

We also clean tile and grout in bathrooms and kitchens. When tile and grout have not been properly maintained, chemical cleaners may be required to get the job done. Knowing the tile material allows you to select the most appropriate cleaning solution. You may find products for Restaurant Cleaning Miami hat are suitable for any tile type at your local hardware shop.

Cleaning windows

It is an essential part of making a business or office look good for clients. A dirty, streaked, and grimy window is a major turnoff for customers visiting a workplace.

There is more than one way to clean windows. There are two distinct approaches to window cleaning: interior and exterior. Even after cleaning, dust and debris are more likely to settle on the exterior of a window.

Soap in liquid state is the basis for many products of Restaurant Cleaning Services Miami. Nowadays, window cleansers that do not use harmful chemicals like ammonium, alkali, or acids are readily available.

Cleansing of Furnishings

Cleaning office furniture typically entails dusting and washing down surfaces. Cleaning office furniture and Boat Cleaning Services Near Me effectively requires a methodical approach, beginning at the top and working your way down to prevent re-suspending dust on previously cleaned surfaces. You will not have to start from scratch, saving you time and effort.

[goldstarcleaning12]

If you’re looking for a reputable, trustworthy company to provide marble restoration in Fort Lauderdale, you should look at Goldstar Cleaning. We have over 15 years of experience cleaning marble floors in luxury homes and commercial spaces. Our highly-trained technicians offer the highest quality marble floor cleaning using the very latest equipment available. We restore and maintain marble floors, keeping them new looking and free of damage for years to come.

[idesofrevolution]

Friends on the Other Side

Ted looked down at his watch, of course the flight was delayed. It's not as if he were on a time crunch anyway, a few weeks off in Miami and Key West would be exactly the right way to spend his hard earned vacation time. He'd always been a workhorse, barely eating, barely sleeping, just going hard every day for the last nine months until he was a zombie: skin and bones. All those hours added up, and thank god he'd been able to use them against his boss-all in all he'd accumulated 14 days of vacation days, and it was finally time to cash in.

It seemed, however, that Delta had different plans. The flight was now delayed almost an hour thanks to "difficulties" in Atlanta and Ted was then left to occupy himself in the terminal for the next 45-50 minutes. He sighed, the thought of the white sandy beaches and rolling turquoise waves was beckoning to him from the vast beyond. He'd be there soon enough. Pulling out his phone, he did what any self-respecting 20 something year old twink would do: he checked Scruff. Sighing with exasperation, he opened the app to an immediate fifteen messages- most of them from pictureless or torso profiles. Though, some of them were rather nice lookin.

His options were limited to whoever was flying in and out of the airport, unfortunately, so that knocked the options down to only a single man. A torso, but it was a nice lookin' torso. Cobbled abs, meaty pecs, tattoos all over. Yummy yummy. Smiling, he opened the message.

BARONSAMEDI: Hey there baby, what brings you to Scruff tonight?

TEDDYTWINK: Looking for a good use of an hour or so. Flight Delay.

BARONSAMEDI: Quite a bit you can do in an hour.

TEDDYTWINK: What can you do in an hour? ;)

BARONSAMEDI: Why don't I just show you?

Ted felt his cheeks blush. He was slick, a nice change from the immediate three unflattering dick pics and a "hey." Not to mention it'd been a minute since he'd actually had the energy to... enjoy some company. He looked up at the clock, 45 minutes in counting. Then there's boarding, so maybe another ten minutes or so? As he sat there trying to justify what he'd been looking to do, the man messaged back.

BARONSAMEDI: Concourse C. I'll be in the mens room. Third stall. If you're curious, of course.

Ted was in Concourse C, and the mens room was only about four gates down. Perhaps it was the proximity that convinced him, or the large time window, or more likely than not, the mysterious man's confident energy itself. He smiled, closing his phone and gathering his belongings. Stacking his bags, he rolled down the long hallway, past gates for Minneapolis, St. Louis, Bangor, and Seattle before finally arriving at the men's room. He quietly walked into the bathroom, finding it completely devoid of occupants. He'd never seen an airport bathrom entirely empty before- perhaps he just hit it right. The rolling of his suitcase's wheels against the tile floor loudly echoed in the cavernous room, and as he arrived in the third stall.

Gingerly peering into the floor gap from above, he could see two huge black combat boots standing behind the door. You know what they say- big feet... big, oh you know. A gentle tap was all it took for the the lock to click open, as Ted did one last sweep of the bathroom before sneaking in and closing the door. Turning around, he saw the occupant, his companion for the next hour.

"Well hello there, my pet." Before him stood a man, large and imposing; two dead, white eyes peered at him behind a dark skull visage. His voice seemed to echo in a low sultry growl, and his accent made him rather hard to understand. "What's the matter, never met the boogeyman before?" The lights seemed to darken around the man as he cackled, leaving a black, empty void surrounding them. He pulled out a cigar, smiling as he lit it with the snap of his fingers. Smiling, he blew the smoke in Ted's shocked face, as he bent down to speak to him at eye level. "I have a proposition for ya, my child."

Ted was terrified, the being before him was not of this world, he was from the great beyond and past our comprehension. There was a strange energy about the man: smooth, flirtatious, suave, with an ounce of danger lurking beneath. The way he looked at Ted... as if he were fucking him with his eyes and that smirk, it was a difficult dichotomy for him to comprehend. Though, as he stood there, cowering in awe and fear, a lingering curiosity grew within him. What did this creature... this being... want with just a normal dude like him? The man leaned in closer, blowing another puff of thick cigar smoke in his face, a probing look across his skeletal face.

"Wha... what did you have in mind?" The man stood upright again, towering above Ted in the dark expanse, letting his long split tongue lick his plump, painted lips. He seemed to lean against the nothingness, a glass of dark rum manifesting itself in thin air into his inked hand.

"Well, it's really quite simple. You're lookin' for a good time, a nice vacation on the beach, maybe make sure some good lookin' fellas end up in the bed at the end of the day. You want to be able to snatch a fella like that with just the snap of your fingers. You want to be strong, and hard, and virile, and get that goood ass. Do I paint an accurate picture?" The sting of truth rang through Ted. Every word was correct. He cautiously nodded his head, still skeptical of the sinister spirit. "Now all I want to do is have a little fun myself, ya feel me? I want a little some of that action, you know what I'm saying? Now I'm all about helping a lost, sad little man like you when he's down in the dumps. But I don't work for free."

An air of menace fell over the duo, and the tension seemed to only grow between them. The spirit looked at him from nearly every angle, as if he were examining produce at the market to find the best one, and he seemed to be pleased.

"What are you proposing, then, sir?" Ted's voice shuddered, be it fear or pure adrenaline. He himself was not sure of his thoughts- this eldritch spirit with the energy of a lusting horn dog was offering him a once in a lifetime deal... perhaps he'd at least hear the terms?

"Only that we may share our experiences with eachother. I will provide you with the tools you need to, shall we say, seal the deal. And in return, you merely allow me to have a little fun of my own along the way." The terms were unclear at best, and duplicitous at worst. That seemed to be in line with the ambiguous intention that the spirit exuded. "Do we have a deal?" The man extended his long, boney hand, the subtle whispers in the dark encouraging him to 'take the deal, take his hand, do it, do it.' Ted, perhaps blinded by the prospect of him being some sort of casanova stud, exhaled deeply as he grasped the calloused, rough hand he'd been offered. He accepted.

The quiet whispers in the room quickly turned to maniacal laughter, as the spirit smiled wickedly at his naive prey. His split tongue ran down Ted's cheek as it tickled it's way down his neck. Ted's clothes faded into the endless oblivion, where he now stood naked and vulnerable. The grip on his hand started to tighten until it felt as if his skin was being seared by the scalding heat. The spirit cackled, the smoke from his cigar wafed around them, obscuring Ted's sight. Within seconds, through a small clearing in the smoke, the spirit's fist flew toward his face with no time to react. All Ted could do was close his eyes and prepare for impact, but to his absolute shock and horror, there was no collision whatsoever. He felt a tightening in his neck, as if there were a frog in his throat. Opening his eyes, he saw what was causing this sensation.

The spirit's arm, submerged into his gaping mouth up to his elbow, and continuing to sink deeper. As more and more of the spirit began to push past his lips, the mans body began to dissipate into a thick fog of almost liquid smoke as it rushed down into Ted's gullet. The taste of ignited tobacco, spiced rum, marijuana, and musky sweat overwhelmed his tongue until it was all he could sense. Holding his breath held no resistance, as the spirit continued to effortlessly push further and further into him, the last of the rubbery smoke flapping around as it whipped down into his mouth.

Ted looked down at himself, a strange green aura began to emit from all around his body, while within him, the spirit's deep, low laughter now bellowed loudly. He looked down as what looked like tendrils began to snake around beneath his skin, protruding out as they squirmed.

"Well, well, well." The spirit's voice boomed from deep inside his chest. "You must be enjoying yourself, Ted. Not much of a fight I must say. Now, as I am a man of my word..." The tendrils snaked down his arms, squiggling their way toward his fingers. Ted began to scream, but as the smoke filled the entirety of his hand, he now found it clasped tightly over his mouth. It began to pulsate as it started to grow and bulk, thick slabs of muscle seemlingly inflating from his very bones, and within moments, it looked nothing like what used to be. His hands were now thick, wide, and calloused, capping off an arm with bulging biceps and triceps dangling from a rock hard deltoid. Ted let out a gasp, pleasantly surprised as his arm flexed all on it's own, a salty wet musk pouring from his pit. "You are enjoying yourself, Ted. No more fighting. Just let me do my work- you won't be disappointed.

A flood of tan washed down his skin from his head to his toes, as the rest of his body began to creak and crack. Tendrils shot out from ever direction, squeezing into Ted's lanky extremeties and inflating them with thick, cut muscle. His shoulders broadened, and his pecs pillowed out of his chest, a light dusting of hair sprouting down his individually popping abs. His right arm swelled to match the other in tone and size, Ted smiling eagerly as his thick knuckles cracked at the sheer force of his fist. Shooting up to an impressive 6'10, Ted's legs burst with mass, ballooning outward and hardening into thick thighs, a tight ass, and chiseled calves. Bursting out of his shoes, high arched size 17's now rounded out his physique, emanating a strong funky musk of their own and keeping all 230 pounds of cut mocha colored muscle steady and supported.

Feeling the final changes settling in, he waited with bated breath as his face began to contort and pinch, squelch and crack. His throbbing cock stretched outward, pressing against the skin tight jeans that encased his lower half, finally peeking it's slimy uncut head out the top, eventually letting the 11 inch monster leak it's pre all across his hard abdomen. Ted opened his eyes, and looked down.

He was an adonis- the jacked, sultry heart throb kind that he'd see on modeling campaigns and pornos. Within his head, Ted profusely thanked his grantor, absolutely dying to explore his new body and see what it could do. Though, it seemed the spirit had other plans. Ted felt a wave of goosebumps flow over his skin, and his new plump lips crack a mischevious side grin. The sly spirit within was not finished, it was now time for Ted to pay up.

"This is my masterpiece, Ted. You should be proud." The spirits dark, deep voice bellowed out of his mouth now while his hands groped and prodded ever delicious ounce of man meat. "But now it's time to pay up, my friend." Ted, now reduced to a mere soul acting as a passenger in his former body's mind, felt the spirit's presence tightening around him. Compressing him. "Now, just let me get a bit more comfortable." The pressure was mounting, building and building against his intangible soul until he felt a small prick. That's all it took for the spirit to flood into the kid's soul. He gleefully grabbed his cock, slowly stroking it as he took this body for himself. Ted felt the very core of the loa merging with his consciousness, as if his last bit of individuality was being slipped on like a costume. His fear was slowly replaced by cockiness and confidence. The feeling of lust overwhelmed him; debaucherous and filthy kinks flooded his mind as the loa inserted himself into Ted.

Intricate tattoos began to be burnt onto his skin, starting from his smelly toes and crawling all the way up his body. Breathlessly jacking his cock, animalistic growls and grunt escaped his mouth, the green cloudy aura grew stronger, now filled with the sharp scent of musk, booze, and tobacco. Nearing climax, the loa took one final moment to absorb the last of Ted, truly becoming one with him. And with an animalistic roar, he shot stream after stream of his thick, gloopy load, pooling into a small sea of cum around his bare feet. His eyes shot open, now a dead white, and his tongue split in two as the last of his ink finalized on his face, the pattern of a skull sublty hidden in it's design. The baron let out a gutteral laugh, as he tickled his sweaty pits with his forked tongue.

"Thanks, Ted. It's a win win. You have the body you've always wanted, and I get to enjoy the land of the living, with all the dick, ass, and pussy that I can take." The loa snapped his fingers, manifesting a string of protection beads, a purple chiffon shirt, and massive combat boots to deck out his sexy new form.

---------

"Final call for boarding on Flight 1102 with service to Miami." The young desk attendant hung up the speakerphone. Only one no-show, not the worst turnout, and only one person that he'd have to get cussed out by. As he typed away at the computer, preparing the gate for takeoff, he caught a gentle whiff of a strange smell. Sweet, salty, sharp... was someone smoking? Before he could look up to find out himself, a hand slammed a boarding pass down onto the desk in front of him. The young man looked up, only inches away from the final passenger's devilishly sexy face.

"Got caught up in the bathroom, my bad, baby." The desk attendant shivered at the sound of his voice, deeper than the ocean and darker than night. Gazing into the piercing grey eyes that stared into his very soul, he felt entirely lost in them. Mindlessly, he stamped the boarding pass, not breaking eye contact for a single moment. The man smiled, biting his lower lip as he sized up the flight attendant. "Thanks, baby. You know how it is. Man's got needs and tension he has to let out. I got a bit left over for a special someone." The man gently caressed the attendant's cheek with his rough fingers. "If you happen to need a release of your own, I'll be ready for you." His split tongue slid between his pearly white teeth, as he took the boarding pass from the attendant and started down the jetway, the trailing green mist wafting behind him as he strode.

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[villargallery]

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[themiamifloors1-blog]

Tile Contractor Near Me

Are you exhausted of typing "Tile contractor near me" again and again? Don't worry The Miami Floors - a Miami based Flooring Specialist contractor, helps you by providing tile home related renovation and remodeling services at affordable prices.

[topsteamer]

Are Your Couches Clean For The Holidays?

Appointments are still available. Call to set up your cleaning today, 305-631-5757

We professionally clean

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Top Steamer

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[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 11: The Rush]

Chapter summary: Queen and Y/N attend a party and experiment with hallucinogens.

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, drugs, partying, injuries, sexual references, angst, some baby stuff.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @loveandbeloved29​ @killer-queen-xo​ @maggieroseevans​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​ @im-an-adult-ish​ @queenlover05​ @someforeigntragedy​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​ @joemazzmatazz​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​ @namelesslosers​ @inthegardensofourminds​ @deacyblues​ @youngpastafanmug​ @sleepretreat​ @hardyshoe​ @bramblesforbreakfast​ @sevenseasofcats​ @tensecondvacation​ @queen-crue​ @jennyggggrrr​ @madeinheavxn​ @whatgoeson-itslate​ @brianssixpence​ @simonedk​ @herewegoagainniall​ @stardust-killer-queen​

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! :)

“You’re trying to make us late, aren’t you?”

Roger looms in the doorway of the hotel bathroom, arms crossed, a baiting ghost of a smile on his lips. His eyes—blue like a summer sky, like blooming delphiniums, like veins beneath skin—trace you from your black heels to your dangling diamond earrings, feasting, craving.

You smile back at him as you rearrange your hair for the fourth time. “The later we are, the drunker everyone else will be and the less agonizing small talk I’ll be forced to make with random music industry people.”

“I can assure you, they’re already drunk.”

“I don’t want to get there before the boys.” Freddie and Brian had left the hotel earlier to pregame in the bars of the French Quarter, and John is...actually, you don’t know where John is at the moment, which is unusual.

Roger chuckles, lights a cigarette, takes a deep drag as he gazes at you. “Come on, baby. You’re not getting any more stunning. It’s not possible. And you don’t want Deaks to be the first one to get there, do you? Can you imagine? He’ll end up telling his life story to the golden retriever or locking himself in a closet or something. We can’t abandon him.”

“No, of course not.” You give your reflection one final appraising glance. It’s not bad: sleek black dress, black Prada bag with a thin diamond-studded shoulder strap, smokey eyes, spritzes of Chanel No. 5. It’s pretty freaking great, actually.

Roger nods to your purse. “You got your kit, Nurse Nightingale?”

“Naturally. You think I trust eccentric and impaired musicians not to do gymnastics down a staircase or punch out misbehaving fellow guests? Oh no. Not a chance. I come well prepared.”

“Good.” Reflexively, unconsciously, he shakes his right arm a few times, stretches the hand, winces. It hurts him all the time, and you know that even if he’ll never say it. He drinks more or less constantly when Queen is on tour, and pops pills on top of that. You can’t ask him to stop; he can’t play without the booze and pills, and he can’t live without the band. He wouldn’t even want to try.

“Roger, is it—”

“I’m fine.” His eyes are on you again, everywhere, soaking up every curve and crevice like rain seeping through parched earth. Dusty ashes trickle from his cigarette onto the white tile floor.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says, meditative in a way that is quiet and still and very unlike Roger. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “How much I love you.”

~~~~~~~~~~

New Orleans is cool and humid and the streetlights shine beneath the constellations of the night sky: Auriga, Cassiopeia, Ursa Minor, Orion, Perseus. The salt-tinged dampness in the air sticks to your bare forearms, your ankles, your collarbones, your cheeks; the chaotic ocean wind rolls in off the Gulf of Mexico. It’s February 14th of 1977, Valentine’s Day, a day you’ve always thought of as a sort of anniversary for you and Roger; not the day you told him yes, but the day you surrendered to the eventuality, the day you agreed to fall in love with the world he promised you.

Is surrender the right word? you wonder, because part of you doesn’t like it, part of you flinches like you’ve been hit. Yes, it is. Whether I like it or not.

You’ve never spoken of anniversaries to Roger. He’s never asked.

The mansion, a Southern-style manor with columns and fountains in the front yard, is raucous with music and trimmed with twinkling white lights; there are dozens of people—men in suits, women in gowns, strippers, drag queens, mistresses, wives, acrobats, magicians, drug dealers—mingling on the wrap-around porch, sipping drinks, shouting at each other over the music, snatching appetizers off platters that waiters balance on their shoulders as they weave from one end of the house to the other. You and Roger swim through the crowd towards Brian’s mass of dark curls and Freddie’s brash laughter that carries through the night air like smoke signals.

Some man in a lavender suit—a producer or manager or record company executive—is talking to Freddie and Brian with a cigar smoldering between his fingers. “...And it’s extraordinary, really, this new album, everyone’s talking about what a success the tour has been so far. What’s it called again?”

“A Day At The Races,” Brian offers matter-of-factly, as if he’s in a business meeting.

“Ah, that’s it!”

“What’s so interesting,” Bri continues, “is that this time around the audience has started really getting into it, singing along to almost every song, sometimes we can’t even hear ourselves! And at first we were a bit annoyed by it—”

Freddie adds: “We were thinking, ‘shut up, bitches, you paid to hear us sing!’”

“—But then we realized that we should be appreciating that enthusiasm, that maybe we could even figure out a way to harness that energy and write songs with the audience’s participation in mind.”

“Fascinating!” Lavender Suit Guy replies.

“Good evening, everyone!” Roger announces as he sails into the middle of the conversation. “Hey man, how are you? Enjoying yourself? Have you met Y/N? Yes, she’s a Yankee just like you, from Boston originally, and she can cure hangovers like nobody’s business so she’s incredibly handy to have around. Have you heard the new Eagles record yet? Jesus christ, it’s bloody brilliant...”

As they chatter, you scan the pulsing throng of strangers for John. After a moment—as Freddie is recounting the band’s escapades in Miami last week—he appears wearing a black leather jacket and hair that barely covers his ears.

“Deaky!” Fred gasps.

“John!” you squeal in delight, and he grins enormously as he wraps you in a hug. He smells like cigarettes and Manhattans and that verdant, ancient mystery of the American South.

“Hi,” he says sheepishly.

“Your hair...?!” You reach up to run your hands through it, to flip his bangs one way and then the other, to tug gently on the ends. “I’m in shock. Good shock, but definitely shock.”

“Yeah, some American girl told me once that I had good bone structure and should chop my hair off someday so people could appreciate it.”

“Hmm, who could that be?” Roger teases, turning to you.

“I believe I described the aforementioned bone structure as fantastic, not good, but close enough.” You can’t stop staring at John. You blink a few times, waiting for it to sink in. Instead, something feels unnerving in a way you can’t pin down: new, different, anomalous, inviting.

“You’ve all gone shorter, haven’t you?” Lavender Suit Guy remarks. “Well...except Brian, of course.”

“He had much shorter hair once, if you can believe it,” Freddie says. “Back in the very early days. Before John joined us. Bri would straighten it too, it was horrid, the poor man looked like a Lhasa Apso.”

“You have a new baby at home, don’t you?” Lavender Suit Guy asks John.

“I do, yes, my second. A wonderful little girl named Anna.”

“Congratulations! And Brian, you’ve got one on the way as well?”

Brian smiles proudly. “Two, actually.” Chrissie has curbed her comments concerning Veronica’s dreadfully banal, domestic, decidedly unposh existence now that Chris is bedridden with morning sickness and carrying twins. ‘I feel like the fucking Hindenburg,’ she’d told you over the phone. ‘If the Hindenburg had sore tits and smelled like vomit.’

“We’re drowning in babies,” Roger quips in a tone you can’t quite read. Annoyance? Curiosity? Disapproval? Envy?

“Well, since the wives are away and you’re free to play...” Lavender Suit Guy flags down a waiter holding a small tray of sugar cubes. “Ever dropped acid? There’s blow floating around somewhere too, if that’s more your scene.”

Brian smirks uneasily and stirs his Vesper. You look to John. John looks to Roger.

Freddie laughs and lifts a sugar cube daintily off the tray with his thumb and index finger. “Marvelous, darling! Will it make me hallucinate all my wildest dreams? Will an imaginary cheerleading squad of Farrah Fawcetts suck my cock all night?”

Lavender Suit Guy chuckles. “I make no guarantees.”

“Nothing in life ever does. Isn’t that tragic?” Freddie pops the sugar cube into his mouth and grins. “Beam me up, Scotty.”

Roger asks you: “You want to? It could be an adventure.”

LSD wasn’t exactly the adventure you’d had in mind when you agreed to follow Queen across the globe all those years ago in Boston; still, an adventure is an adventure. And if I don’t keep things interesting, he’ll find someone who will.

Oh, that’s not a thought you knew you had.

And I would like to return it to that repressed, dimly-lit, cobwebbed corner of my subconscious where I’d buried it, thank you very much.

“Is it safe?” John asks Lavender Suit Guy.

“Do you think I’d give you something that wasn’t safe? It’s perfectly safe. It can’t kill you. It’s not heroin. Worst case scenario you get a bad trip. And I’ve never gotten a bad trip from this stuff.”

You conjure up a smile for Roger. “Let’s do it.”

“Excellent,” he says, his face lighting up; and you realize that that’s what he’d wanted. He picks up a sugar cube, lays it on his tongue, and then slips it between your lips as he kisses you. Freddie whistles and claps. The cube dissolves with a pleasant, innocent, nostalgic sweetness. Then Roger turns to John. “You in, Deaks?”

John hesitates, then nods. “Alright.”

Roger passes John a sugar cube (with his hand this time), picks up one for himself, and toasts them like champagne glasses. “Cheers!” The sugar cubes disappear behind their teeth.

Freddie stares at Brian. Brian gnaws his lip and stares back. Freddie wiggles his eyebrows impishly. Finally, Bri sighs, exasperated. “Fine, okay, what the hell, I’ll do it.”

“I’m so proud!” Freddie cries, pressing his palm to his heart. “I am a proud mama.” Brian grimaces as Fred stuffs a sugar cube into his mouth.

“How long does it take to work?” you ask Lavender Suit Guy, feeling no different at all.

“It varies. Not too long, usually.” He whirls, spies someone else he recognizes, waves, and rushes off to greet whoever it is and presumably offer them illegal drugs.

After fifteen disappointingly uneventful minutes of trailing behind the band as they chat with various rich and famous party guests you don’t recognize, you depart to find a restroom.

“Don’t be gone long,” Rog calls after you. John watches with a Manhattan in his right hand. “I don’t want you to be alone if things get...you know...weird.”

“Sure thing.”

You find a small restroom just off the downstairs hallway of the mansion. The clock above the doorframe reads 9:47 p.m. You duck inside, muttering about your first acid experience being a total dud, about defective LSD and Valentine’s Days spent with strangers. As you scrub your hands with rose-scented soap, you glance up to check your makeup in the mirror. Your face isn’t there. Instead, Dominique Beyrand stares back at you.

You gasp, and Dom does too, in that delicate and prodigiously feminine way that she has. You peer penetratingly into the mirror as you gingerly tap your fingertips against your face, which is Dominique’s face now: her olive skin, her high pump cheeks, her large dark eyes like a doe’s, her pink lips. You experiment with a smile, and then a frown; you even emote the same way she does, with a charming candidness, with a rare sort of grace.

Why am I thinking about Dominique?

You’d seen her a few times since Queen’s Hyde Park concert, following Richard Branson around at industry parties and dodging mindless gossip and tedious networking, the same as you. She always greeted Freddie warmly and mostly ignored Roger. He always asked her a few questions anyway, questions you thought he already knew the answers to.

I guess the acid wasn’t a dud after all.

You titter uncertainly. You knot your fingers through your hair—Dominique’s hair—which is thick and glossy and onyx. Her eyes gaze unflinchingly back at you. They blink when you blink.

I have to find Roger, you think suddenly. I don’t know where he is. I don’t know who he’s with.

You spin, wrench open the restroom door, and stagger out into the hallway, your hands pressed against the floral wallpaper to steady yourself. The yellowed, antebellum walls breathe as you do, subtly, sighing as they exhale cool air into the soft clammy skin of your palms. The boards of the hardwood floor clang like piano keys when you step on them. You check the clock hanging above the bathroom door. It reads: 11:09 p.m.

“Uh oh.”

I have to find Roger.

You creep through the hallway as other guests pass you—some zooming by, others moving in slow motion as if they’re treading water, none apparently noticing the breathing walls or musical floor—peeking into each room to see if Roger is there. He’s not in the living room, the kitchen, the dining room, the parlor. Instead there are strangers in all of these places, laughing in each other’s arms, drinking, dancing, touching each other beneath suits and skirts and dresses, smoking cigarettes and blunts, rolling up hundred-dollar bills to snort white powder off silver trays like mirrors.

I have to find Roger. I have to find Roger. I have to find Roger.

In the backyard of the mansion is a cobblestone patio, a garden, a swimming pool which must be freezing but nevertheless has several naked guests thrashing around splashing each other in it, and a bubbling hot tub. You recognize one of the two people in the cloud of mist with their arms resting above the roiling water on the concrete rim. They’re giggling and pointing up at the stars, telling the stories of the constellations, their faces flushed and glistening with steam.

“Hi, Brian!” you cry, relieved.

He turns, sees you, summons a smile; but it’s not a true smile. It’s cagey, it’s dissatisfied, it’s nervous somehow. “Ah, there you are, love.” The girl sitting next to him in the sweltering water is very much his type and entirely unlike Chrissie: tall, slim, blonde, curly-haired. She has a tattoo of a lush, pristine peach on one tanned shoulder blade.

“Have you seen Roger?”

Brian’s brow furrows. “He didn’t find you?”

“Evidently, he did not.”

“Huh. Well, I’m sure he’s around.” Brian waits for you to leave. The blonde girl shoots you a polite but anxious smile. Peaches, you think hazily. Peaches from New Orleans. Just like the girl he told me about when I first arrived in London. Just like the girl in Now I’m Here.

“Bri, come inside with me.”

“I’m fine here,” he replies curtly.

“Bri, please. It’s late. It’s cold. We’re so far from home. There could be sharks.”

Peaches gawps at me, confounded. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Brian snorts. “Sharks can only live in cool water. Everybody knows that. We’re perfectly safe. Stay out of the pool though.”

“Oh. Right. Of course.”

“Good luck locating Roger.” That’s your cue to go.

“Come with me. I’m freaked out. The floor sounds like Somebody To Love.”

“That’s nothing. The bubbles in here play Beatles songs when they pop.”

“Brian...”

“Y/N,” he says harshly, darkly. “Go find Roger.” What he means is: Y/N, get lost.

What about your wife? you almost shriek at him. What about your children? What about those vows that you made three days before Christmas in 1975, the specter of global fame beckoning from the doorway of the Anglican church that Chrissie grew up attending, Roger’s arm tight around my waist and sprigs of holly in my hair?

But Brian already knows about all that, and he doesn’t care.

I have to find Roger.

You leave Brian and Peaches and slip back into the mansion. You search each room as the floorboards shift and chime beneath your feet; now they’re playing the intro to Seven Seas Of Rhye. You realize that you’ve lost your heels somewhere along the way. You aren’t terribly concerned; you have more pressing matters to attend to.

Behind the fourth door you open is a library with books and menacing portraits lining the walls. Everything inside is blue and wibbly and palpably sad. Freddie is slumped on the floor next to a grand piano, his hair in his face, each hand clutching a full champagne flute.

“Darling,” he slurs, thrusting a glass towards you. Fizzy champagne lurches over the edge and trickles down the side of the glass. “Come join me!”

“Is it the LSD or is the room actually that color? I feel like I’m trapped in Picasso’s Blue Period.”

“Do you? It’s all black and white to me. But blue fits. Welcome to my melancholy room.”

“Your melancholy blues,” you pitch with a grin.

Freddie chuckles. “Drink this champagne before I’m forced to pour it down your throat.”

You take the flute and sit on the floor beside him. “Have you seen Roger?”

“I have not.”

“Oh.”

“Darling,” Freddie asks drowsily. “Do you think one goes to hell for being gay?”

“I don’t think you’d go to hell for anything, Fred. You’re too good a person.”

“Ahhhh,” he sighs, dreamily, peacefully. “You are a delight, my dear. Truly. I adore having you around. I do hope you stay with us, even when Roger makes you want to kill yourself.”

“How would he do that, Fred?” you ask softly.

Freddie doesn’t answer. Instead, he lifts your hair away from your face, tucks it behind your ear, smiles patiently at you. “I tried to warn you, you know. We all did. I know you thought we were all being insufferable pricks. But we did it out of love.”

“John never tried to warn me.”

Freddie smirks. “Well. He’s got his own demons, doesn’t he?”

You aren’t sure what Freddie means. You down the champagne and climb unsteadily to your feet. “I have to go find Roger now.”

“Of course you do.” Freddie’s umber eyes flick to the ceiling. “Good god, there are birds up there. That is not sanitary. Leave the door open when you go so they can fly away, would you dear?”

“Okay. I’ll love you no matter who you are, Freddie. We all will. You don’t need to worry about that.”

“Thank you, darling.”

“Will you come with me? Will you help me? I’m worried about Roger.”

“You should be more worried about you.” Freddie waves goodbye. “I have to stay. I’m writing songs.”

“You don’t have a paper and pen, Fred. Do you need them?”

He grins and pokes his temple with a black fingernail. “It’s all up here.”

“Okay. See you around.”

“Au revoir,” Freddie replies, and closes his eyes as he leans back against a breathing wall.

You step out into the hallway and journey towards the main staircase. Someone has put on the new Eagles record; Hotel California rocks deafeningly through the mansion. The air quivers with slow, ghostly notes strummed on an acoustic guitar. The floorboards have abandoned their piano keys and now jolt with each drumbeat. The house has taken on a shadowy, violet hue.

“There she stood in the doorway

I heard the mission bell

And I was thinking to myself

This could be heaven or this could be hell...”

You clutch the banister as you ascend, studying each guest that passes you for a familiar face. There are none. They’re all blushing and glassy-eyed and cackling as they paw at each other, ignoring you, not seeing you at all. Emerald snakes dart between their rushing feet, forked tongues tasting the lust and impending amnesia in the air. What happens in the darkness tonight will be forgotten tomorrow. It has to be. All the world’s rules and obligations depend upon it.

“Her mind is Tiffany-twisted

She got the Mercedes Benz

She got a lot of pretty, pretty boys

That she calls friends

How they dance in the courtyard

Sweet summer sweat

Some dance to remember

Some dance to forget...”

You catch your reflection in the night-draped window halfway up the staircase. You’re you again, not Dominique. Part of you is comforted by that; part of you feels more alone than ever. You stare at yourself, beautiful, extravagant, dusted with jewels and luck. You have everything. You have nothing. You continue up the staircase.

“Mirrors on the ceiling

The pink champagne on ice

And she said, ‘We are all just prisoners here of our own device’

And in the master's chambers

They gathered for the feast

They stab it with their steely knives

But they just can't kill the beast...”

A woman in a shimmering scarlet dress is sitting on the top step and taking a drag off a cigarette excruciatingly slowly. She exhales, the smoke curling out of her red lips like tentacles, her pale eyes tracking you.

“Last thing I remember

I was running for the door

I had to find the passage back

To the place I was before

‘Relax,’ said the night man

‘We are programmed to receive

You can check out any time you like

But you can never leave.’”

You summit the staircase and peer down the hallway to your right. At the end of it is a vast, broken picture window. Cold night wind pours in through the jagged hole in the glass; you can see stars outside. A man is lying on the floor next to the window. You know him.

“John!” you shout, and sprint to his side.

“Hi.” He’s cradling his right arm to his chest. His knuckles are shredded and drenched in crimson blood. Incandescent shards of glass protrude from his hand and glint under the lights. There’s a heavy, coppery, sick-sweet scent in the air.

“John, honey, why would you attack an innocent window...?”

“It wasn’t so innocent. You should have heard what the bastard said to me.”

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up—”

“Stop,” he hisses when you try to touch him.

“John—”

“No!” he screams, pushing your hands away. “Stop it, just leave me, just fucking leave me!”

You step back, cross your arms over your chest, raise your eyebrows impatiently. “You want to tell me who you’re really so mad at?”

He frowns down at the rug, which is streaked with his blood. “Me, I guess.”

“Well you can be mad at yourself at the hospital.”

“No, no hospital,” he insists.

“Your hand is positively mangled. Your playing hand. You need to get it cleaned out.”

“You can fix it. No one else.”

“Since I’m tripping on acid, I probably shouldn’t be the one to fish glass shards out of your skin.”

“You can fix it,” he repeats, confidently now.

“Fine. Have it your way.” You help John to his feet, lead him downstairs, and sit him down at the kitchen table. You open your purse, unpack your supplies and position them in a neat row, shake out your hands to get them limber, give John a glass of water. “Are you going to have to write whoever owns this place a check for the window?”

“No one knows I’m the one who did it. No one even knows who I am.”

“I know who you are, John. Here comes the lidocaine.” You land a series of injections into the flesh surrounding his wrist, his knuckles, the back of his hand. You pause each time you get distracted by the murmurings of the table, which apparently speaks German. Okay table, this is important, kindly shut the hell up. Danke.

“Ow,” John says lethargically.

“And so what if these people don’t know who you are? Who the fuck needs them? You don’t need anyone who doesn’t know you’re the backbone of this band. Who made the Deaky Amp? Who wrote You’re My Best Friend? Who stays focused and calmly waits for the others to stop bludgeoning each other on a nearly daily basis? John fucking Deacon, that’s who.”

“Yeah. Alright,” John agrees, smiling. “Who needs them.”

“You’re gonna get your moment in the sun, don’t you worry.” You pick up your tweezers and begin plucking slivers of glass out of John’s bloody hand, plinking each into a white ceramic bowl. “Everyone is going to know you one day. You’re gonna spread your wings and write a ton of hits and unforgettable basslines and show the world what a genius you are.”

“Sounds thrilling. I’ll see what I can do.” He gazes down at his hand. “It doesn’t hurt at all now, that’s incredible.”

“That’s the magic of modern medicine.” You drop another shard of glass into the bowl. “How’s your first-ever LSD experience going so far?”

“Aside from the window business, quite well. Better now that you showed up.”

“Sorry. I spent an hour being confused by my own reflection and then tried to find Roger. You haven’t seen him, have you?”

“I have not.”

After a while you set your tweezers down on the table and inspect John’s hand closely. “Does this look glass-free to you? My eyes aren’t super trustworthy at the moment. I just saw a fish swim by outside.”

“It looks perfect, in my layperson’s opinion.”

“Okay. Let’s wash and sanitize, then we’ll wrap...”

John follows you placidly to the sink, lets you scrub and towel off his hand, returns to the table so you can bandage it with gauze. It’s quieter in the house now, the guests slowly dispersing, the music turned down and something mellow by the Stones; Gimme Shelter, you think.

“What made you so angry?” you ask him. “You know. Angry enough to assault a window.”

For a long time, John doesn’t answer. He looks up at the ceiling, his gentle greyish eyes chasing something you can’t see; birds, maybe, like Freddie. Maybe he’s looking for the sun. Maybe he’s looking for himself. Finally, he says, very quietly: “I’m just so fucking tired of lying all the time.”

“You never have to lie to me, John.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I do.”

Then you hear a laugh, an untamed one, a familiar one. You turn to John. “Was that just me or...?”

“I heard it too.”

You both leap from the table and hurry after the sound. You burst outside onto the cobblestone patio. Roger is doing backstroke laps in the pool, howling up at the moon. There’s no sign of Brian or Peaches.

“Roger!” you yell.

“Hey, baby! I’m winning! I’m in the Olympics! I made the team! Do you see me winning?”

“You’re totally winning. Please come out before you get pneumonia or attacked by a shark.”

“Shark...?” John inquires.

“I’ve discovered something amazing,” Roger declares, still swimming. He flails his right arm in the air for you to see; the serrated mark that mars the underside appears to be slithering, a snake made of scar tissue and interrupted plans. “When you’re on drugs, nothing hurts!”

“Baby, please come out now.”

Roger obliges, hauling himself up the ladder and out of the pool. He’s still in his black suit; it’s ruined and clings to him and is dripping buckets of chlorine-smelling water. John yanks a towel off a chair and tosses it to Roger, who drapes it over his shoulders like a cape.

“Jesus christ, where have you been?!” you demand. “You almost gave me a heart attack!”

Roger grins toothily. “A sheer one?”

Despite yourself, you smile back. “Oh yeah. A sheer heart attack. Real cardiac.”

“I had the best idea. Baby, you gotta hear my great idea. It’s so great.”

“Okay, I’m listening.”

He lunges to wrap you in a cold, sopping hug. “Everyone’s having babies, right?”

“Uh, well, not everyone...”

“We should have a baby.”

John’s eyes go wide. You swallow noisily. “Roger, love, I don’t think right now is the ideal time to make a decision like that.”

“Why...? Oh. Right.”

“Yeah.”

“If I still feel this way in forty-eight hours, can we have a baby?”

“Roger, I...” You glance to John for help. He raises his hands in surrender, one bare, one clumsily bandaged. You’re on your own, kid, that look says. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. That’s a lot of responsibility. I’d have to stay home with them. I wouldn’t be the tour nurse anymore.” I would never know where you were, who you were with.

“I’ll fly you out to visit all the time. I’ll have to. I can’t do this without you.” His eyes—blue like frigid pool water, like bruises, like dreams—are euphoric, effervescent.

I can’t say no to him, you realize, and it sends a biting shudder up the rungs of your spine. I didn’t just fall in love. I took a fucking nosedive.  

Oh, this SO did not go according to plan.

You remember when you first met Queen, how independent and fearless and guarded you had been, how forcefully you had resolved not to put your happiness in a pair of wild, reckless hands like Roger’s.

What happened to that girl? How do I get her back?

And there’s something else, too: a thought you barely recognize as your own. A child would make us permanent.

John is watching you, edgy, apprehensive; but he doesn’t say anything.

“Okay,” you tell Roger. “We can try. If you still feel this way in forty-eight hours.”

“And I will.” Roger’s teeth skate up your neck and he whispers, his breath hot against the goosebumps rising on your skin: “Let me know when you’re late.”

[themiamifloorsflorida-blog]

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