Page 9 of Undefined Terms

‘You went to the bar.’

THE bar. The statement hits flat. He knows. He’s known since. Christ. Since before I moved, the phone call. The one where I said something about a table in the Northern Quarter and red nails and I keep going back and Ewan said nothing for ten seconds and then: So go.

And I went.

‘I went to the bar.’

Ewan nods, doesn’t push. Laurence is at the sink, washing what doesn’t need washing yet and the water’s running and he’s giving us the room without leaving it and I think. He’s good at this, they’re good at this, the two of them. How they’ve made it work. The silence that isn’t empty.

‘They’re still there,’ I say.

‘At the bar.’

‘Corner table. Every night.’ I look at the plate. ‘Same spot. Same laptop. Same…’ The word I need isn’t here. ‘Same.’

Ewan drinks, puts the glass down.

‘Have you spoken to them?’

‘Three nights running.’

‘And?’

And. And I sat at their table because there was a chair. And they told me about steak and horror and the Welsh coast. And they put their hand on my wrist for one second and I’m still thinking about it two days later. And I went home hard three nights in a row and didn’t do anything about it because doing something would make it. Doing something would.

‘And it’s good,’ I say. ‘The beer’s good.’

Ewan’s mouth does a thing. He decides no.

‘The beer.’

‘Yeah.’

‘You moved to Manchester for the beer.’

‘I moved for the contract. And you.’

‘And the beer.’

‘And the beer.’

Laurence comes back with a bowl. Puts it on the table. Sits down next to Ewan, their shoulders touching, no gap. Laurence’s hand goes under the table. I don’t see where it lands, but Ewan’s face changes: half a shade softer, the eyes warmer. The glass is at my mouth. I haven’t drunk from it. I put it down. Pick it up. The empty side of my chair.

‘More wine?’ Laurence says.

‘Yeah. Cheers.’

He pours, the bottle’s almost done. He’s already got another one open on the counter because of course he has. I wonder if this is what Ewan’s life is now. Someone who opens the second bottle before you’ve finished the first.

Ewan talks about maths. A proof he’s working on, a problem that’s been open for decades. His eyes go bright, the same look he’d get at school when he’d found something that made sense to him and nothing else did. Laurence watches him talk, the patience in it. He doesn’t interrupt even though half the words are in a language I don’t speak. He just watches. And Ewan talks faster, knocks his glass and catches it, laughs, and Laurence’s mouth twitches.

Warm.

Too warm.

‘And the contradiction’s elegant, is the thing. The proof fails beautifully.’

‘You’re losing me, Ewan.’