Page 124 of Undefined Terms

Ewan stays for the four cans. Talks about Laurence. The paper, the marking, the Victoria sponge that came out lopsided. ‘He said it was rustic. It looked like a crime scene.’ Normal things. The coat he puts around you after the surgery.

He leaves at ten, the door. The carrier bag, empty now, folded, tucked in his jacket pocket because Ewan folds things, even plastic bags, even after two cans.

‘Ron.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Yeah.’

The door closes, the stairs.

The flat. The packet of stars on the bedside table. The ceiling. The bare, white, stupid ceiling.

Tomorrow.

I walk from the flat to Oldham Street, the route I know. Left at the corner, past the barber’s, past the kebab place that smells the same at any hour, past the Tesco Express. Seven minutes. I’ve done it in five when the rain was bad and once in three when Celyn texted the pasta’s dying, Ron and I ran.

Seven minutes tonight, normal speed. My legs know the way.

The jacket’s not warm enough. January. Should’ve worn the other one, the work one, the quilted one. Didn’t think. My hands in the pockets, phone right, keys left, Celyn’s flat key. The one they gave, pressed into my palm.‘In case I’m in the shower.’

I could use the key. I’m not going to use the key.

The light from upstairs is on. The bedroom light. The one that means Celyn’s in.

The stairs, the door. The carpet that used to be something.

I knock.

Nothing, the heating, a car outside, a podcast, maybe. A voice.

I knock again, harder, the knuckle, the wood.

The podcast stops.

Footsteps. The floor in Celyn’s flat creaks by the door, the board near the hinge side, the one I’ve stepped over enough times to know it. Tonight I hear it from outside.

The door opens.

Celyn, the doorway, the light behind them.

Joggers and a hoodie I don’t recognise, not mine. Bare feet. Unkempt stubble grown in along their jaw. Nails bare, cuticles raw where they’ve picked at the edges.

They look at me, I look at them.

‘Hey,’ I say.

Celyn doesn’t move. Doesn’t open the door wider. Doesn’t close it, just. Stands.

‘Can I come in.’

‘Why.’

Flat. The vowel shorter, harder.

I open my mouth, close it.