He leaves Wednesday.
That fact remains stubbornly unmoved by chemistry, domesticity, or the alarming softness of waking up with him draped over me.
Wednesday.
This is a weekend.
A strange, intense, probably ill-advised weekend.
Nothing more.
I know that.
Unfortunately knowing a thing and liking it are rarely the same exercise.
By the time I loop back towards the harbour, sweat cooling at the back of my neck, I have achieved exactly one useful conclusion.
I like him.
Too much already.
Excellent.
Whitstable is beginning to wake properly now. Delivery vans. Café chairs scraping pavement. Seagulls circling overhead like tiny violent attack planes.
I cut across towards Harbour Street and head for the coffee place on the corner.
“Morning, Mark.”
“Morning. Two cappuccinos, please.”
The owner nods and turns to the machine.
I lean against the counter and pull out my phone.
Two missed messages from Callum.
Alive?
followed half an hour later by
If you died in Islington, I’m not identifying the body.
I’m considering leaving him to wonder when the phone starts vibrating.
I answer. “What.”
“Well that’s warm,” Callum says.
“You rang me at stupid o’clock.”
“It’s nearly eight.”
“Still offensive.”
There is airport noise behind him. Announcements, luggage wheels, the general misery of public travel.
“You ignored my messages.”
