Page 73 of Undefined Terms

Dean nods, goes to clean up. I stay one more minute, the surface setting, the building getting taller.

Some days the work’s all there is and the work’s enough.

Saturday morning.

The flat’s different.

Same brick, same crack in the ceiling, same nail where the landlord didn’t bother, but the flat’s different and it takes me a full minute to see it.

The charger: Celyn’s phone charger plugged into the wall next to mine. The white cable, the one with the crack in the coating near the plug. It’s been there for. Don’t know. A week, two. Celyn plugged it in one Tuesday and never took it back and I never said don’t you need this at yours and now it lives in my wall socket like it’s got a lease.

The toothbrush in the bathroom: green, not-mine-green. Mine’s the purple. The shampoo in the shower that isn’t mine, the mug on the counter, the one Celyn brought over the morning after the first time and it’s been here for. I count, six weeks. The mug has been here longer than some of the blokes on site.

The key on the brass ring.

I’m lying in bed and Celyn’s next to me and the flat is full of things that aren’t mine and I don’t remember deciding this. Don’t remember a conversation. The things arrived and stayed because Celyn arrived and stayed and both of those facts are in the walls now.

Celyn’s head on my chest.

But present. The skull, the hair, the breath that hits the skin in a rhythm I didn’t ask for but my breathing matches anyway. My hand’s in the hair. Don’t remember putting it there. The fingers doing what they do now, separating strands, finding the scalp, the slow drag that makes Celyn’s eyes close.

The flat smells like us. Like the sheets need washing and the window needs opening and neither of us is going to do either of those things.

‘Beddgelert,’ Celyn says. Into my chest. The word muffled.

‘What?’

‘Where I’m from. Beddgelert.’ The accent does something to the word. Wraps around it, makes the consonants soft. ‘Snowdonia. Tiny village. One pub. One church. One shop that sells postcards and fudge and those little slate things with Welsh words on.’

The words don’t sit right.

‘My dad’s a postman. Was. He’s retired now. Mam works at the B&B. Reception. She knows everyone’s business before they walk through the door.’ A breath. ‘I’ve got a brother. Owain. Older. Married. Two kids. Lives in Wrexham.’

‘Right.’

‘Normal family. That’s what I’m saying. Dead normal.’

Celyn’s breath on my ribs.

‘Dad still says “he.”’ The voice you use for a thing you’ve said a hundred times. ‘Every time. “How’s he doing.” “Has he got a job yet.” “Tell him his mam wants a call.” I’ve told him. Owain has told him. Mam’s told him. He nods. Says “right, right.” Next sentence: “he.”’

The fingers in the hair stop. I start them again.

‘Mam’s different. First time I told her she sat quiet for about ten minutes and then she said, and this is word for word, “So are you a boy or a girl, then?” And I laughed. I wasn’t, it wasn’t funny. But she asked it like she was asking if I wanted tea or coffee and the face she made was, she really wanted the answer. Like there was one.’

‘What’d you say?’

‘I said “neither.” She said “Wel, that’s going to take some getting used to.” Never asked again.’

Flat, lamp, crack. Celyn shifts, the chin moving, the jaw against my sternum. I feel the stubble, two days. The scratch of it on skin that’s already⁠—

‘They love me,’ Celyn says. ‘They don’t get me. Different things.’

Love and getting, two different things.

‘My dad stopped talking to my brother,’ I say.

Celyn doesn’t move. The breathing steady.