Page 120 of Bare

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'Through the window. Walking to the courtyard. I stop. Every time.'

'Every time?'

'Every time.'

Neil lay in the dark. The new dark. Different from his flat's dark. The streetlight came from the other direction here, the shadows fell differently, the ceiling was higher. He'd learn it. He'd learned every ceiling he'd ever slept under. Rory's flat, counting the cracks after sex. The studio, staring at the watermark while catching his breath.

New ceiling. New shadows. Same man beside him. The arm across his chest. The weight.

'Rory.'

'Mm.'

'We live here.'

'We live here.'

'Together.'

'Together.'

'With a broken vase and a crooked curtain and a studio the size of a wardrobe.'

'A wardrobe with excellent light.'

'And coffee on the worktop.'

'Where it belongs.'

'And a child's room with east-facing light.'

'And Spider-Man on the wall.'

Neil turned his head. Found Rory's mouth in the dark. The kiss was slow, tasting of toothpaste and the last coffee andthe man himself. The ring clicked against his lip. Familiar. Necessary. The sound of home.

'Go to sleep,' Neil said.

'I'm knackered. But I can't sleep. You keep kissing me.'

'One more.'

'One more.'

One more became three.

Then nothing. The breathing evened. The arm stayed.

The bathroom was eucalyptus. Rory's soap, presumably his for years before Neil was any part of the picture. In Rory's flat it had belonged there. Here it sat on the shelf of their bathroom and it was the wrong smell. Not right yet.

He'd get used to it. Or say something, start a negotiation that'd take three weeks.

The pipes ticked. The street settled.

He hadn't decided about the curtain. It could wait.

20

NOVEMBER 8TH

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