Page 166 of Proof By Contradiction
‘I think Ron’s in love,’ I say. ‘He doesn’t know how to start.’
Laurence smiles and sets the coffee down. Crosses the room.
‘That,’ he says, ‘runs in the family.’
His mouth on my forehead. The press of it. Warm.
Outside: Manchester in July, long light. The sun is not quite setting.
Inside: a sofa, a book, a man’s mouth against my skin.
The summer is not ending yet.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The calendar on the kitchen wall has a circle around today’s date. Black pen, Laurence’s handwriting, the neat loop that says: this matters. Don’t lose track.
September. One year.
I’m looking at the circle while he’s looking at the dishes, and the dishes are looking at both of us with the mute accusation of objects that know they’ve been there since the day before.
‘Your turn,’ he says.
‘It’s been my turn for three days. That’s not a turn, that’s a sentence.’
‘You said you’d do them when you got home from work.’
‘I said I’d do them. I didn’t specify a century.’
He gives me the look. The Haldrey look, the one he used to deploy in lectures when a student offered a proof that started from the wrong axiom. I used to find it devastating. Now I find it mildly annoying and deeply attractive.
‘Laurence. The dishes can wait.’
‘The dishes have been waiting. The dishes have developed patience. I’d argue the dishes have shown more?—’
‘If you say the dishes have shown more commitment than me I’m moving back to halls.’
He laughs, the real one.
The jaw I mapped in October, traced in November, and bit in December.
I took his life apart. He took mine apart, too. Neither of us had that in the plan.
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I’ll do the dishes.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But I’m doing them badly. On principle.’
The bookshop is closed on Mondays. The second year starts next week, registration, new modules, and the campus is filling up again after the summer emptied it. I walk through the Northern Quarter heading to the tram, and the route is muscle memory now: the mural with the bee, the vintage shop that smells of someone’s grandfather, the bar on the corner where Ron sat three times pretending he wanted craft beer while staring at a corner table.
He comes up more often than Lewisham-to-Manchester justifies. Brings wine. Always from the same shop. ‘The one near the bar,’ he says, which means the one near Celyn, which means the geography of Ron’s shopping has been permanently rerouted by a person with a pencil between their teeth.
Last month, he brought a bottle from Mum. The card saidDear Ewan and Laurence, Sean and I say hello. We hope you’re well.
The ‘Sean says hello’ was a lie; Dad hadn’t actually said hello. Dad had grunted in the general vicinity of a greeting while watching the football, but Mum included it because Mum builds bridges out of whatever materials are available, including fictional hellos.
The card sat on the mantelpiece for a week. Laurence looked at it every morning.
