Page 11 of Proof By Contradiction
The lecture ends.
People start gathering their things. Haldrey doesn’t look at the back row again. He could have, but he chose not to. That’s information too.
Femi closes his notebook. Hasn’t written anything on the page. He’s grinning and barely containing it.
‘You absolute slag,’ he says. Low. Delighted.
‘Shut up.’
‘Trapped between two bounds.From above and from below. Squeeze.’ He mouthsfrom belowwith theatrical slowness. ‘Ewan. My brother in Christ. In front of two hundred people.’
‘It’s the terminology, Femi. That’s literally what the theorem is called.’
‘Sure. Sure it is.’ He’s packing his bag like he’s been handed gold. ‘And thesir?’
‘What about the sir.’
‘Thesir, Ewan.’
‘Shutup, Femi.’
I’m not looking at him. He’s loving this too much. Femi has been out since twelve, I have been out since thirteen, and Femi is reading me in the queue at enrolment like gay men know each other in any line longer than four people. Femi sat through the running commentary of every lad I’ve pointed at in this city since Monday of freshers’ week.
‘He’s our lecturer,’ Femi says.
‘He’s a lecturer with a pretty face. I’m not blind, Femi. And I’m not suicidal.’
‘Exactly. So drop it.’
We file out with the rest of the theatre. My hood’s still up. Haldrey’s at the lectern with his back to the room, wiping the board, one long, slow sweep of the eraser across the theorem. The pull of the cotton between his shoulder blades. I track it from my seat to the aisle, then force my eyes to the floor.
In the corridor outside, Femi says, ‘Right. Canal Street tomorrow. Non-negotiable.’
‘Was already planning to.’
‘Good. Allan’s meeting us at ten. He’s booking a table.’
‘A table. On Canal Street.’
‘I know. I know. He said,let’s get a table first, then see where the night goes,like he’s forty years old and owns a Volvo. I nearly cried.’
‘You’re so gone.’
‘I’m so gone.’ Femi’s grinning at his phone, where presumably Allan has texted him something likecan’t waitwith a sun emoji. ‘Come for one drink. Say hi properly. Then peel off and do whatever it is you do,’ he waves a hand at the whole concept of me, ‘and I’ll stay with Allan and try not to propose on the first round.’
‘Deal.’
‘And you,’ he says, side-eyeing me, ‘are going to burn off whateverthatwas back there.’ He jerks his thumb at the theatre behind us. ‘With some lad you don’t know the name of. Aren’t you?’
‘That’s the plan.’
‘Thought so.’ He exhales. Cataloguing. Femi knows my Fridays-into-Saturdays by heart: the hookup pattern, the routine. Has held my hoodie while I’ve snogged strangers in smoking areas, has texted mehome safe?at three AM andhas always got a thumbs-up back. Femi trusts me, which is a generous reading most days and an inaccurate one today.
Tomorrow night I’ll find somebody tall. Dark hair. Glasses, if I can get them. I’ll take him somewhere strange, and I’ll burn this off me, and I’ll come back on the first bus Sunday morning with my neck sore and my head clear and a weekend’s worth of distance between me and the back row of that theatre.
That’s the plan.
My phone buzzes in my pocket as we hit the doors. Ronan.Settling in okay?
