Page 48 of Undefined Terms

Gaz spots her first. ‘That’s Steph.’ Fixes his hair under the hard hat, which has never helped anyone.

‘The Stockport girl?’

‘Yeah. Girlfriend now. Met her at Thomas’s birthday do. She’s bringing my flask back.’

She looks up when we come through. Smiles at Gaz, quick, then the eyes slide past him.

‘You’re Ron, yeah? Gaz talks about you non-stop.’

‘Gaz talks about everything non-stop.’

She laughs. The line wasn’t that good. Her eyes go to my arms, the concrete dust still on my knuckles. Stay there.

‘So you’re building the whole thing? Like, actually building it?’

‘The concrete and the steel. Yeah.’

‘That’s mental.’

I give her the short version: columns first, then beams, then bracing, how the steel goes up before the concrete goes in. The site voice, the one that explains without rush. She listens like I’m describing surgery.

Gaz takes the thermos. ‘Right, curry. You coming, boss?’

‘Nah. Cheers though.’

They go through the gate, Steph glancing back once. Gaz is already talking about the menu.

The next week.

The door’s unlocked and there’s music. Something acoustic, a guitar and a woman’s voice.

I push the door. The flat smells different, just not mine: the garden-fruit thing, and underneath, toast. The toaster that does one side only. Someone’s flipped the bread.

Celyn’s on the bed, cross-legged, laptop open, the screen bright. Hoodie, my hoodie, the grey one I leave on the chair, over jeans. The feet bare, the nails on the toes, chipped green, the same as the fingers, three days into the week.

‘Door was open,’ I say.

‘I heard you on the stairs. You walk like you’re trying to get through the floor.’

‘Cheers.’

Then back to the screen. Typing. The sound of the keys, fast, then nothing, then fast. I stand in the doorway with my jacket on and the site still on me, the dust and the concrete and the sweat, and Celyn’s in my hoodie on my bed with the music and the toast smell and the key under the mat and none of this was decided. It happened how the second mug happened. Same as the sugar.

Boots off, jacket on the hook. The shower, quick, the water too hot, the soap over everything. The dust goes grey in the drain. The tile’s cold and the flat’s warm.

The hoodie’s gone. The restaurant T-shirt underneath, washed soft. The stubble heavy enough to scratch, the hair pushed back.

I’m in boxers, towel on the floor, my hair’s still wet.

Celyn stands up, walks to me. Doesn’t say anything. The hands come up and rest on my chest. Flat, palms down, feeling. The heat from the shower, the skin still damp, the muscle underneath.

‘You smell like soap,’ Celyn says.

‘Better than before.’

‘Debatable.’

The hands slide up, shoulders, neck. The chin. My chin, Celyn’s fingers on it, tipping my face down. The eyes, grey-green, close.