Page 55 of Undefined Terms

One hand on my cock. The other I don’t know what to do with, then I do. I spit into it and bring it to the head, slick, and wrap it over the first hand, base and head working different speeds, the way Celyn showed me, mirrored. The back arches off the mattress. The heels dig. The breath going short.

Three minutes in I’m not going to last and I make myself slow it down because I want it. I want to know what my own body does when I let it want what it wants. The hand at the base squeezes and stops. The other hand stays at the head, just there, the wet, the friction without movement. The cock pulses against my fingers.

Then I start again. Slower. The mouth that said my name twice. The hand below my hand becomes Celyn’s hand. The hand above becomes the mouth. The body is shaking and the breathing goes short and the ceiling’s still there with the crack and the rain’s still ticking and I’m coming.

Celyn.

The name. Two syllables. Comes out of my mouth, not loud, barely sound, and the come hits my fist hot, then the stomach, then the chest, the surprise of how far. The hand keeps moving through the aftershocks. The smell of it. The name on my tongue, clean and simple like a joint that fits first time.

I lie there. The mess on my hand. The boxers pushed down. The breathing going back to normal. Waiting for what usually comes after. The scramble, the discomfort.

It doesn’t come.

Just. The rain on the window. The flat that smells like detergent and beans and nothing else.

Like a pour that’s set overnight and you strip the forms and the surface is clean. Right. That’s what that looks like.

I get up. Wash my hands, clean up, change my boxers. Drink water from the tap, cold, the glass against my teeth.

The phone, I don’t text, don’t need to. The shift ends at eleven. Celyn will text when it ends, or won’t, either way.

I get back in bed. Pillow, detergent.

The phone buzzes, eleven twelve.

Dead on my feet. A man asked for the wine list and then ordered a Coke. I’ve seen things, Ron. I’ve seen things no server should see.

I read it. The smile comes before I decide. The corner of the mouth, not the full one. The Celyn voice in the text. The way even the typing has timing. The comedy that arrives two beats after you expect it.

I type: Thoughts and prayers

Three dots, then: You were sleeping, weren’t you

I look at the phone. The screen in the dark. Eleven fourteen and I just came saying this person’s name twenty minutes ago and now the person’s texting me about wine lists and I’m typing back like nothing happened. Like the last hour was a different room in the same building and you can walk between them and nobody checks.

Nearly, I type.

Go to sleep, I’m getting the bus. I’ll text when I’m home.

Night.

Night, Ronan

I put the phone face down. The screen glows blue through the case. Then dark.

The flat, the rain. The white one in the cupboard. The smell of detergent that isn’t garden-fruit. The blue one in the sink with the black tea I didn’t finish.

Tomorrow they’ll use the white mug. Tomorrow the flat will have two cups in the sink and the pillow will have a dent and the silence will be the right kind.

Sleep comes like it hasn’t in weeks. Fast, simple.

The phone on the pillow. Silent. I don’t check.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Ibuy the keyring one morning. The place on Oldham Street, five minutes, three quid, the bloke behind the counter doesn’t look up. Small brass tag, round edges, nothing written on it.

Back at the flat, I lift the mat and take the spare from underneath. It’s cold, damp at the teeth, a bit of grit stuck to one side. Stupid place for a key. Stupid thing to call it, too. Spare. Like Celyn’s only meant to be here if something goes wrong.