Page 11 of Undefined Terms

I roll onto my back. The clock on the phone: 1:14 a.m.

Doesn’t pass tonight.

Takes a long time to not pass.

I don’t do anything about it. But tonight not doing it is louder than doing it would be. I lie there, ceiling dark. And I think about Ewan’s kitchen and the wine and the hand under the table and Celyn’s mouth saying my name with the soft R and the circle on my wrist that I can still feel and.

I don’t have a phone number.

I have their face behind my eyelids every time I close them. Ewan knows that. Ewan saw it three months ago in London before I’d said a word. Ewan knows I moved to Manchester for a fourth reason that isn’t on the list.

Three things, good money, good project, close to Ewan.

And a corner table. And a name I keep saying in my head with an R that doesn’t sound like mine.

The ceiling, white.

1:47 a.m.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. The week has a shape now.

Seven o’clock: gate, hard hat, hi-vis, the site. Check, pour, set, repeat. Dave’s briefings in the portacabin, Gaz talking about the Stockport girl, Dean not talking about anything. Radio on, Capital, a woman, a man.

Five o’clock: clock off, the walk, the shower. The polo that isn’t the site polo.

Seven o’clock: the bar.

I know Celyn’s schedule. Didn’t try to learn it, the body learnt it. Monday, late, half eight: coat damp, laptop out, mug. Tuesday and Wednesday, early, already there when I arrive, laptop open, one earphone in, the mug. Thursday, sometimes not there, a shift at the restaurant, the NQ place, thai, weekends and Thursdays. Friday, there, always there on Friday.

The body learnt it.

I didn’t.

Dave catches me Tuesday at the portacabin.

‘You’re still in that Airbnb.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Eighty a night?’

‘About that.’

‘About that.’ He leans back, the plastic chair creaks. ‘You’re burning money, lad. Get a flat. SpareRoom. Twenty minutes. Done.’

He’s right. Eighty a night times fourteen is, a number I don’t want to do in my head. Ewan said the same thing; Mum said the same thing on the phone last Sunday. The flat was in there between are you eating and your father says hello which means Dad’s alive and that’s the full extent of the update.

Tuesday night, the Airbnb. The laptop I brought for invoices and site logs. SpareRoom. Northern Quarter, because the site’s here and the—because the site’s here.

Filter: studio, £600-800, NQ or Ancoats.

I scroll: studio on Lever Street, studio on Thomas Street, studio on Tib Street, second floor, above a barber’s, furnished, six hundred and fifty a month. The photos are small but clean: a window onto the backyard, a galley kitchen narrow enough to touch both walls at once, a sofa that looks like a real one.

Contract length, the dropdown. Month by month, six months, twelve months. Terms and conditions. None of mine are defined.

The cursor sits on six. Six is sensible. Six is what a man on a two-year contract does when the project might pivot, when Dave might pull the team, when Ewan might decide Manchester’s not for him after the MA. Six lets you go.

The finger doesn’t click six. It hovers. The trackpad’s a small black square and I’m flat on it and not pressing.