Page 57 of Undefined Terms

‘Could’ve put “person who does the milk”.’

‘Didn’t think of that.’

‘Obviously not. Tragic lack of imagination.’

Celyn closes their hand around it. That does something to the room. No mat. No damp corner by the door. No pretending it’s only for when Celyn forgets a charger or drops off a flask or comes round because the buses are shit and the rain’s worse.

‘You know I’ll use it,’ Celyn says.

‘Yeah.’

‘Not politely.’

‘Wouldn’t expect that.’

‘I’ll come in when you’re not here.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’ll leave stuff.’

‘You already leave stuff.’

‘More stuff.’

‘Fine.’

There. The smile. Quick and gone.

Celyn stands, scarf dragging off the chair and nearly taking the laptop charger with it. Crosses the kitchen. Not dramatic. Not slow. Just comes to me and puts both arms round my middle, face against my chest. I stand there with my hands up for half a second. Then I put them down. Back of the hoodie. Scarf, wool. Warm person.

‘It’s only a key,’ I say.

Celyn’s hand tightens at my back.

‘No, it isn’t.’

It doesn’t hold. The keyring buys an hour, maybe less, and then something in Celyn goes tight again. The typing turns aggressive, delete, delete, delete, the tea going cold, the scarf still on indoors, wrapped around the neck.

I don’t ask, Celyn doesn’t say. This is how we work. The silence carries until someone puts it down and it’s usually Celyn because Celyn talks and I listen. I was built for silence.

But Celyn doesn’t put it down.

We go to the bar. Evening, the walk’s different. Celyn’s ahead of me by half a step, which never happens. Usually we’re close, usually there’s a hand that finds my elbow or my wrist or the back of my jacket. Tonight: nothing, half a step ahead, the scarf trailing.

The bar, our table, two pints. Celyn opens the laptop and types and the typing is angry, the keys hitting harder, the delete key taking punishment. I drink. The screen from my angle but I can’t read it, the font’s small, Celyn keeps the brightness low.

‘How’s it going,’ I say. After twenty minutes.

‘It’s not.’

I wait, the pint, the table, the sound of the bar. Someone’s laughing near the taps, a glass breaks, the bartender swears.

‘The tutor,’ Celyn says. ‘Thinks the second act drags. Thinks the house is too abstract. Wants more.’ The fingers make quote marks in the air. ‘“Grounded emotional stakes.” Whatever the fuck that means. Everything’s a stake. The whole thing is a stake. The woman is living in a house that rearranges itself and she’s losing her mind and apparently that’s not enough.’

The typing stops.

I haven’t got anything to give. The tutor’s wrong, I know that in my body, but I can’t explain why. Don’t have the vocabulary. Grounded emotional stakes. I don’t even know what that means.