There are songs that belong to very specific periods of your life whether you want them to or not, and this one is apparently filed under house sharing, cheap vodka, and loudly denying you know all the words while knowing every single one.
I point the fork at the radio.
“No.”
Harry Styles ignores me completely whilst signing passionatelyWhat Makes You Beautiful.
The water bubbles.
I reach for the pepper mill and by the time the first chorus arrives my foot taps once against the tiles.
Purely incidental.
My shoulders loosen a fraction.
I stir the water.
Tap the fork once against the bowl.
Then again.
This one lands suspiciously in time with the beat.
I hate singing in public. I avoid karaoke like the plague. But the thing is, there is no one here.
Mark has left a note on the kitchen counter saying he’s gone for a run, because apparently even at this hour he is all irritating discipline and unfairly competent calves.
This means, no witnesses.
I move to the toaster, still mouthing the words under my breath, and catch my reflection in the microwave door.
I stop.
Look around as if someone might issue a formal complaint.
Then continue, because apparently shame has not yet had coffee.
By the second chorus, things have deteriorated.
The avocado is done.
The bacon smells indecently good.
I am singing under my breath with all the solemn commitment of a man who should know better.
My hips shift once as I cross back to the hob.
Then again.
A tiny, deeply regrettable sway.
I point the fork at my reflection in the window onyou don’t know you’re beautiful, because if I’m going to humiliate myself, I may as well commit.
The song has me by the throat.
I slide across the kitchen tiles to the bread bin, narrowly avoid clipping the island, recover with what I decide is considerable grace, and continue singing to absolutely nobody.
I use the fork as a microphone.
