Page 41 of Undefined Terms

I take my hand off the brick. The cold stays on my palm. The shape stays.

I walk.

The flat, the door, the key. Right way round this time. Inside. The bed’s still unmade from last night. The sheets still smell like both of us. Concrete dust and garden-fruit. Both here.

I sit on the edge. The edge where Celyn stood.

You’re Ron, that hasn’t changed.

Like it’s simple, like this is enough.

I pick up the phone. I type.

Ewan says come to dinner

Three dots, gone, three dots again, then:

Tell your brother I’ll bring dessert.

I close my eyes. The taste is gone. But the shape is still in my hands. And the sound, the Welsh word, the one I don’t know, is still in my ears.

My door’s open.

I come up the stairs, boots on the concrete, and the door’s open, a crack. Light from inside making a stripe on the floor.

I push it. Celyn’s on the bed, sat cross-legged, shoes off, the Converse by the door like they belong there. The laptop on the knees. Typing.

‘Spare key was under the mat,’ Celyn says. Doesn’t look up. ‘Terrible hiding place, by the way. A child could find it.’

‘How did you know where to look.’

‘Because you’re practical. The spare key under the mat type, in case of emergency.’

I stand in the doorway.

Flannel shirt, open, dark blue and green check. Through the gap: a black cotton bra, flat against the sternum. Loose jeans. And the nails: yellow, bright proper yellow, like a hazard sign.

‘You going to stand there?’ Celyn says.

I take my boots off. Put them by the Converse. Two pairs of shoes at the door. Four shoes. I look at them for longer than I should.

I sit on the bed, the edge. Celyn’s still typing.

‘The chapter’s being difficult,’ Celyn says. ‘The character won’t go through the door.’

‘Which door?’

‘The one in the new room. The one the house made overnight. She’s stood in front of it and she can hear what’s on the other side but she won’t open it.’

‘What’s on the other side?’

Over the screen the eyes are bigger.

‘She doesn’t know yet. That’s why she won’t open it.’

The flat holds us. Manchester’s doing its thing outside, the rain that’s not rain, the mist sitting on everything. Inside it’s warm. The tea and the laptop and Celyn on my bed like Celyn belongs on my bed.

‘Come here,’ Celyn says. The laptop closes. Goes on the carpet. Pats the bed.