Page 16 of Undefined Terms

No stubble, smooth. The skin where yesterday there was, where the other night there was.

I know this face. I’ve sat across from this face for a week. But tonight the face is, she looks, they look different.

She, no, they.

The same person, the same table. The same half-smile when they see me looking. A stranger on the street tonight would think: girl. Fit. Look twice and not wonder why.

I’m not a stranger. I know what’s under the red: the stubble two nights ago, the voice, the way they read me across the table before I’d said a word. The dress doesn’t change what my body’s doing. Neither did the hoodie. That’s the bit I haven’t got a word for. It was never the dress.

‘What.’ Celyn puts the bag down. Sits. The dress rides up an inch above the knee and the tights make the skin look darker. There’s a smell coming off them, citrus, warm underneath, close.

‘Nothing.’

‘You looked at my legs.’

I drink the pint too fast and there’s foam on my lip. Wipe it.

‘You can look. I don’t mind.’

Then Celyn looks back. Properly, not the writer-glance. The eyes go down my forearms where the polo sleeves end, the site-tan, the scratch on one knuckle, and back up to my mouth, slow, not pretending they’re not doing it.

‘Fair’s fair.’ The voice drops. ‘You think I never clocked you? All those weekends. The big quiet one at the counter, looking and looking, never once coming over.’ The half-smile. ‘I had your face a long time before I had your name, Ronan. You’re not subtle. Neither am I. I just hide it better.’

Celyn opens the laptop. The red nails on the keys. The same ring, the same hands. But different. The dress and the smell.

‘You’re staring, Ronan.’

‘I’m not.’

‘You’ve been staring since I walked in.’

‘I’m checking the structure.’

‘Mm.’ The chin tilts. Celyn doesn’t pull the dress back down, lets me look. ‘And? Sound, is it.’

‘Load-bearing.’

Something crosses the red mouth, gone before it lands.

I pick up my glass. Don’t drink. ‘You look.’ The word’s not there. ‘Different. Tonight.’

‘Mm.’ Not flattered, not offended. ‘Different how?’

I don’t answer, can’t.

‘You look. Nice.’

Celyn types, doesn’t look up. But the corner of the red mouth lifts. One second, then gone.

Ewan’s at the bar.

He’s there at the counter ordering, the jumper with the hole in the elbow, the same face as mine but younger and sharper. He sees me before I see him. His eyes go to my table, to Celyn, back to me. Something crosses his face, quick, gone, filed.

He doesn’t come over.

He orders his drink and stands at the counter. Pulls his phone out, scrolls, drinks, doesn’t look at me again. Three minutes, then he leaves.

My phone buzzes.