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Summary
Morrissey had always been the other man — and he always would be.
His relationship with Johnny was fragile, secret, as if hidden between the lines of their songs. It was built on moments: nights in cheap hotels with peeling walls and creaky beds, where behind drawn curtains they could be themselves. On hurried kisses in dressing rooms steeped in sweat and guitar dust. On the back seats of the tour bus, where they touched each other in the dark, trying not to make a sound, not to give themselves away.
But for Morrissey, it wasn’t enough. Painfully not enough.