He reads the Guardian Saturday edition on a Sunday because he buys it Saturday evening and saves it for the ritual.
He turns the bathroom fan on after a shower by reaching around the door frame without looking.
His fridge is organised by height, not category. He keeps butter out on a ceramic dish.
He irons on Sunday night with the radio on, which he turns down when the strings get dramatic, as if the music were a third person in the room he’s being polite to.
One map in daylight and one in the dark—both mine. Neither is acknowledged when anyone else is present.
Saturday. Rusholme. Curry Mile in the rain. Femi is in a waterproof jacket that has opinions about the wind.
Agreed it a week ago—mid-term reset, no laptops, proper food.Femi takes an agreement like that seriously, like a subpoena. He’s at the door before I am. Hood down, nose pink. Menu already open on the biryani page, order predetermined.
‘You look shifty,’ he says, before I’ve even sat down.
‘Nice to see you too.’
‘Nah, you’re shifty. Your eyes do the thing.’
‘What thing.’
‘The thing where you’re in the room but about ninety per cent of you’s somewhere else. Been doing it since November. Thoughtit was freshers’ stress. Changed my mind. It’s a person. Is that why you aren’t going out with us anymore?’
He saysa personlike the Crown saysthe alleged incident. I ordered a lassi for something to do.
‘Femi.’
‘Ewan.’
‘Can we have one meal where you don’t read me like a suspect.’
‘No.’ He opens the menu a second time purely for the drama. ‘Best mate. Legally obliged. Allan made me watch three episodes of some American detective show last night and I’m in my forensic era.’
‘Brilliant. Try it on someone else.’
‘Already did. This morning. I asked Allanare you seeing somebody elseover his cornflakes, he saidyeah, your mum, and then he left for his place.’
A proper laugh, the first real one in days. The waiter brings lassi, poppadoms, little metal pots of chutney, and for seven minutes I’m not a bloke with a Yale key next to a condom in his wallet—I’m a boy in a Rusholme curry house with his mate, breaking a poppadom badly, bullying the mango chutney into cooperating.
Femi talks. Allan’s patterns—his own parents. Mum wants him home for half-term. Dad has decided on WhatsApp that Allan isa sensible young man, which in Femi-father is code forI will not fight about him yet.
I listen. Contribute the minimum. Twice I want to check my phone. Twice I sit on the hand that’s about to. Because this is one hour this week where nobody’s judging my age, and the relief is so specific it’s almost physical.
‘Ewan.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Alright.’ He pokes a chunk of chicken with his fork like he’s testing a concept. ‘Just saying; whatever the guy is, you’re allowed one Saturday afternoon that isn’t about them. That’s all I came to say. Said it. Will now eat my biryani in relative silence as agreed.’
‘Relative silence.’
‘Relative.’ He grins.
Tuesday morning, eight forty. Macroeconometrics is in an hour, in the wrong direction. I’m on a tram going the right way.
I didn’t plan it—or I planned it like I plan everything, by not planning and then finding myself already moving. Showered, put on the jeans that fit right, walked out of the halls with my bag strap digging in, and my feet turned towards Chorlton before my brain had caught up. By the time I was on the tram, I’d already texted:You teaching today?
He answered within thirty seconds.Not till eleven
