Femi and Allan are sitting opposite me. Holding hands on top of the table. Fingers laced, thumbs moving.
Allan laughs at his phone and shows it to Femi, and Femi laughs too. They lean into each other, temple to temple—the easiest gesture in the world.
I drink my pint, watch them. The fruit machine plays its six notes.
Femi nudges Allan. ‘Get us another round?’ Allan goes. Femi turns to me.
He waits. Femi’s silences are different from Ronan’s. Ron’s silences extract. Femi’s make room.
‘You could have this, you know.’
‘Have what?’
‘This.’ He nods towards where Allan’s at the bar. ‘Someone’s hand on the table. Going to the pub without checking the door first. Not lying to everyone you know.’
He says it without accusation. That’s the worst part. Just: this exists.
‘It’s not that simple.’
‘It is that simple. For most people.’
He’s right. And the rightness of it is unbearable.
What I’ve got isn’t architecture. It’s demolition dressed up as a floor plan.
‘I’m fine, Femi.’
The look that saysI know you’re not.The most generous thing anyone offers me.
‘Okay,’ he says. He puts his hand on my arm. And squeezes. And doesn’t ask again.
Allan comes back with three pints. Sits down. He finds Femi’s hand immediately, like breathing. Their fingers interlace, and I feel something I can’t name. Not envy. Envy would be easier.
The pub, the fruit machine. The sticky table. Femi’s hand in Allan’s, visible, simple, unafraid.
I finish my pint. My hand is around the glass.
His ceiling. I know it better than my own.
The condom was knotted in the bin. Lube is still open on the nightstand. His palm, warm, heavy, against the bone. His breathing slowed against my back.
Good sex, proper good.
He fucked me into the mattress, and I came so hard my ears rang. So why am I staring at a ceiling crack and feeling like I’ve eaten a full meal, and I’m still hungry?
January in Manchester is personal. Damp that gets into the walls, into the sheets. Two weeks in Lewisham for Christmas, and the city’s been punishing me since I got back.
Two weeks of Ron watching me like a documentary. Two weeks of Mum not asking the questions she’s clearly running her tongue over. Two weeks of sleeping in my real bed and reaching for a body that wasn’t there and pretending I was reaching for my phone.
And Dad was in the armchair for most of it.
Arsenal on. Volume up two notches higher than anyone needs.Alright, when I came through the door on the twenty-third.Safe travelswhen I left on the sixth. In between: twice, to the back of my head. Once about the boiler. Once about whether the 171 was still running. The rest of the time, I’m a shape in the corner of his eye, he’s training himself not to turn towards.
Christmas dinner. He asks Ron to pass the salt across me. Across, not round. Like I’m a serving dish. Mum’s mouth tightens. She doesn’t say anything. The words stay locked behind my teeth, too. Ron puts the salt in his hand without looking at either of us. Gravy keeps going round the table because gravy doesn’t care.
After the pudding, he goes back to the front room for the highlights. Door clicks without slamming. Sean Carrick doesn’t slam doors. He removes himself. That’s his move. That’s the move he’s been doing in my direction since I was thirteen, and the fish fingers and peas, and I’ve learned it like you learn weather. Look at the sky, get a coat. Don’t take it personally. Take it personally.
And now: term, Laurence’s ceiling. Again.
