Page 86 of Undefined Terms

My phone buzzes.

Shift’s done?

I look at the message. The question mark that isn’t really a question.

I type: Just got home

Send. The reply’s instant: Wear the grey t-shirt. I want the pleasure of taking it off you. Then, before I’ve even put the phone down: And don’t start without me. I put the phone down, pull my boots off. Leave them by the door where Celyn’s Converse will go in an hour. Two pairs, four shoes. The same arrangement every night.

The word, in the flat. In the two pairs of shoes.

I’m not saying it tonight. Don’t need to. The word’s already in the flat. Already in the hour I’ve got before Converse hit the stairs.

I pull the polo off. Sit on the edge of the bed.

When the Converse hit the stairs I’ll be up before the key turns. The body’s already decided.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The phone goes at eleven. I’m on the sofa in boxers eating toast over the plate on my chest, crumbs in the belly button, the telly on, the window open a crack.

MUM on the screen.

I brush the crumbs off, sit up, clear my throat like she can tell I’ve been lying down.

‘Hiya, love.’

‘Morning, Mum.’

‘It’s eleven. It’s not morning.’ The kettle’s going in the background. Always the kettle. The woman runs on tea like a train runs on diesel. ‘You been sleeping?’

‘Course I’ve been sleeping.’

‘You sound tired.’

‘I always sound like this.’

‘You always sound tired. That’s what I’m saying.’ The kettle clicks off. The mug on the counter, the spoon, the milk, the whole routine I’ve heard a thousand times. The sound of Lewisham in a kitchen. ‘Ewan says the job’s going well.’

‘Ewan talks too much.’

‘Ewan barely talks. He texts. “Ron’s fine.” That’s all I get. I had more conversation with the postman this morning and he only wanted me to sign for a parcel.’

I eat the toast. She talks: new neighbours, the fence, Dad’s knee, bad again, won’t see the doctor, stubborn as furniture, the church roof fundraiser, auntie Maeve’s hip. The whole week in five minutes.

‘So,’ she says. The so that has a turn signal on it. The corner is coming. ‘Any nice girls in Manchester?’

I laugh, don’t mean to, too fast, too high. Shit catch at cricket. Fumbled.

‘What’s funny?’

‘Nothing. Nah. No girls.’

‘You sure? You sound different, love.’

Different, that word. I press my back into the sofa. Cushion, crumbs.

‘Different how.’