Page 102 of Undefined Terms

It could have stars. Celyn would know where they go, would say that’s not where Orion goes and I’d say who’s Orion.

The breathing changes, heavier. Celyn’s gone. Sleep.

Don’t move.

The ceiling. The plan I’m making for a flat that isn’t mine for a person who isn’t, who is,

The weight, the hair.

Thursday.

Nothing happens on Thursday. That’s the point of Thursday: the day nobody planned and nothing’s expected.

I get back from the site at quarter past six, the usual: mud on the boots, dust in the hair, the polo stuck to the back, November air. The dark comes at four now and the walk from the bus stop is streetlights and breath and the key in the lock.

Celyn’s on the sofa.

Today: my grey t-shirt, too big on them, the neck pulled down to the collarbone. Shaved this morning, jaw smooth.

The laptop open, the writing face.

Celyn looks up.

‘There’s pasta. I actually cooked. Don’t die of shock.’

The boots come off, jacket on the hook. Garlic and oregano hanging in the air, or basil maybe, one of the ones that comes in a jar either way.

The pasta is decent, I say so. Celyn takes it like I’ve awarded a Michelin star. The face, the chin up, the eyebrows, the mock-seriousness. ‘I’d like to thank the Academy. And Tesco. Mostly Tesco.’

We eat at the counter because the table’s got the laptop and two books and a mug with a pen in it and a cardigan draped over the back of the chair.

I don’t mind. Tried to mind. Can’t.

‘How was the site?’

‘Steel.’

‘The full report.’

‘Poured the footings on C block. Rain at two. Stopped at three. Poured again.’

‘Gripping.’

‘You asked.’

The grin, the glasses. The pasta that’s actually decent.

The sofa, the telly. Something, a show, a thing with people in a house arguing about a kitchen. Celyn’s opinion on the tile work is detailed and wrong. I tell Celyn it’s wrong. Celyn tells me tile is subjective. I tell Celyn tile is not subjective and subway tile is lazy and anyone who puts subway tile in a kitchen should be, Celyn kisses me to shut me up about subway tile.

My hand on the knee. The jeans. The knee through the jeans. The shape of it. Muscle memory.

Celyn’s hand on my thigh. The climb, slow. The fingers walking up the denim. Unhurried, just. There.

‘Come here.’

Celyn doesn’t answer. Shifts. The weight. The body turns, the knee comes up, the sofa’s too narrow for this but we do it anyway because the bed’s three metres away and three metres is too far. I set my mug down on the side table without looking, the base clipping the lamp.

My hands on the hips. T-shirt, my t-shirt, rides up. Skin. My palm on the stomach. Smooth, warm. Jeans open. Zip. Under the jeans. Cotton. Simple. Elastic. My hand over the fabric and Celyn’s breath catches.