Page 12 of Proof By Contradiction
The message stays.
I walk to the bus stop with fists in my hoodie pockets and the wordcorrectin his Lancashire vowels looping behind my eyes.
Eleven days till Tuesday week.
I start counting down.
CHAPTER THREE
Canal Street on a Saturday night is what happens when neon and vodka reproduce, and there’s nobody around to intervene.
Rainbow flags, bass leaking from every doorway, lads in mesh tops, girls in leather, drag queens smoking outside a kebab shop.
First time out in the Village properly. This is the real thing.
Doesn’t matter. The codes are the same everywhere. Eye contact, body angle, the tilt of a drink. How a lad leans against the bar tells you everything. Manchester’s gay scene runs on the same voltage as London’s: just more rain and worse architecture.
I like it here—the first place in this city where I can fully exist.
Femi’s beside me, wearing the same shirt with the breast pocket, and he’s got that look again. The one where he can’t contain it, all of him vibrating with it.
‘He texted me good morning,’ he says, as if reporting that gravity has reversed.
‘You mentioned.’
‘Every day this week, Ewan. Every single day. Is that normal? Do people just, do that?’
I take a sip of whatever this is, too sweet, not enough ice. ‘Some people do.’
‘He sends a little sun emoji with it. A sun. Every morning.’ Femi stares at his phone screen like it contains the formula for cold fusion. ‘Even on Sunday. Who sends a good morning text on a Sunday?’
‘Femi. You’re describing a weather report, not a potential boyfriend.’
He doesn’t hear me. He’s scanning the room for Allan, who appears two minutes later from the direction of the bar, carrying two drinks and wearing a smile that should come with a planning application.
‘Hey.’ Allan sets down the drinks. One for Femi, one for himself. He’s remembered what Femi likes. Of course he has.
They sit close. Allan’s hand on the back of Femi’s chair. Femi is leaning into the space he makes. Allan tilts towards him when he talks.
This. I study it. Like a proof I cannot parse.
Jealousy belongs to people built for it. This is more like watching someone speak a language I’ve never learned.
Whatever.
I finish my drink.
‘I’m going to find better music,’ I say, which means I’m going to find a bloke, which Femi knows because Femi knows me.
‘Be safe,’ he says, eyes still on Allan’s. Allan’s mid-story, and Femi’s laughing, surprised, delighted, nothing held back. I hear it all the way to the door.
His name’s Ryan or Brian or a name that doesn’t matter. Second year, sports science, body that matches. Arms that strain hissleeves, a stomach built from actual dedication. He’s got a flat five minutes from campus and a bed that’s marginally wider than my halls coffin.
Tonight, a bed feels necessary, for reasons I’m not examining.
His place smells of protein powder and clean laundry. Posters on the wall: some band I’ve never seen before, a calendar from last year still in March. He’s tidy like blokes fresh from home are tidy: surfaces clear, chaos stuffed in drawers.
He’s good. Credit where it’s due. Knows his angles, knows what to do, and, when he pushes me onto the mattress, he gets the positioning right on the first try. His grip’s right. His weight’s right.
