Page 127 of Undefined Terms

‘You stayed,’ Celyn says.

‘Yeah.’

The heart, my heart, Celyn’s hand on it, is doing what I thought I’d grown out of. The young bloke thing. The speed that comes with not knowing what comes next. I’ve been with girls and I know the rhythm, the route, how it works when it’s predictable. Celyn moves differently, the touch stays. The hand doesn’t grab or demand. It just reads. Like Celyn’s fingers are taking the pulse and the pulse is telling Celyn something mine can’t reach my own mouth to say.

The six inches were a wall. Now they’re four and the wall’s becoming something I’m walking through and I don’t know if I’m ready. For myself. For the version of me that’s on this mattress with the light in the wrong direction and no exit plan except whatever happens next.

The ribs settle, the heart’s still going fast but it’s different now. The speed you hit when you’re pouring concrete and you’ve got maybe ninety seconds before the whole batch sets and you have to commit to the angle with your body and your hands and no chance to think about whether it’s right.

Celyn’s looking at me, waiting, the eyelids half. The mouth a question mark.

I’m out of breath, from deciding.

‘You slept in your jeans.’

I look down: jeans, t-shirt, socks. I slept on top of the covers in my clothes like a lad who fell asleep at a mate’s and forgot to leave. Except I didn’t forget. I lay down when Celyn lay down and I stayed awake listening to the breathing for. I don’t know, an hour, two. Until the breathing slowed, the hands unclenched.

‘Didn’t want to move.’ I start. Stop. ‘Wasn’t sure if you’d want me to stay.’

Celyn puts a hand on my wrist. The touch that doesn’t ask anything. Just sits.

‘You can take the jeans off, Ron.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

The jeans go, the T-shirt goes, the socks, I’m in boxers. Celyn’s still in the hoodie and the joggers. The six inches are four now.

Celyn’s palm settles over my heart. The same place as, the last time. The time that went wrong.

My heart’s going fast now. Different fast. Not the Lewisham fast, not the running-from fast.

‘It’s fast,’ Celyn says.

‘Yeah.’

‘Good fast or bad fast.’

‘Good fast.’

The hand stays. The thumb moves, a small circle over the sternum. The nail catching the skin. The nail that used to be green, blue, purple, yellow, red. Bare now, still Celyn’s nail, still the same thumb.

I put my hand over the hand. My hand, bigger, callused, the dust in the knuckle cracks. Over the fingers, I press down. Here. This heart. This speed. Yours.

Celyn shifts closer. The four inches become two. The hoodie’s warm, body-warm, sleep-warm. The stubble against my shoulder. The hair on my skin.

‘Ron.’

‘Yeah.’

A breath. Celyn pulls back enough to see my face. The eyes, close. Grey-green with the light in them.

Celyn’s hand finds the small of my back. The pressure, slow, downward. Not a question.

My stomach drops, bigger than fear, warmer. The yes before the head’s caught up.

‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Yeah. I want’ The word. ‘Yeah.’