Page 135 of Undefined Terms

The shutter. The absence of it.

Thomas stands up. ‘Getting another. Anyone?’

He goes to the bar. Doesn’t wait for answers.

Dave, Dave who’s been drinking. Dave who’s heard everything and said nothing because Dave never says anything until he’s ready.

‘Nice one,’ Dave says. ‘They drink? Bring them round.’

Not ‘her.’ Not ‘him.’ ‘Them.’ The same way Dave uses metric and imperial and doesn’t care which as long as the measurement’s right.

Dean puts the pen down. Looks up from the crossword. Catches my eye, lifts the glass, an inch, two, I see you, noted.

He goes back to the crossword.

Pub. Estrella. Fruit machine. Gaz talking about Stockport again. Dave checking his phone, Jay present. Thomas at the bar. The back of his head, the neck, the shoulders that haven’t turned around.

Dean fills in another word.

I drink. The knee’s stopped bouncing.

I go to the toilet, stand at the urinal, the tiles, the grout that’s seen better decades. My hands are shaking and I say ‘fuck’ once, quiet, to the wall. The wall doesn’t care, good. I wash them, the soap dispenser’s empty, I dry them on my jeans, go back.

The circle’s different. Smaller, maybe. Or the same size with more space in it. The space where Thomas was that’s now just, space. The space where Jay’s figuring out what shape to be. The solid bits. Gaz, Dave, Dean. Still solid. The same way a site looks after you strip the scaffolding. Some walls stand, some don’t.

I finish the pint, put the glass down.

‘Same again?’ Gaz says.

‘Yeah. Cheers.’

Gaz goes to the bar, comes back, two pints, puts mine down, sits.

‘So,’ Gaz says. ‘Celyn. That’s Welsh, yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

Gaz nods, drinks. ‘Bit of a distance from Manchester to Wales.’

‘They’re from Beddgelert. Live here.’

‘Right. Decent.’ Gaz nods. ‘So about this penalty kick.’

Pub, Friday, pints, talk about nothing, match, weather, site. Dave leaves first. Always does. Dean after. Jay says ‘see you Monday’ and it’s the same ‘see you Monday’ as every week and it is and it isn’t.

Thomas comes back after the second round. Sits. Doesn’t say anything about it. Talks about the match, the gap’s there, between us. On the bench, in the conversation, in the question he doesn’t ask. The gap’s there and it’s going to stay there for a while and that’s okay.

That’s what it is.

Gaz is the last one. At the door, jacket on, the cold coming in.

‘Ron.’

‘Yeah.’

‘You back together then, you and Celyn?’

‘Yeah.’