Page 167 of Undefined Terms

Celyn scrolls. Stops on the last one. The small room at the back, the north window. Says nothing. Sees it. I watch them see it.

‘Both names,’ Celyn says. A term, not a question.

‘Both names.’

‘You put the deposit, fine. I’m not too proud to take the start. But I pay my half after, every month, to the penny.’ The chin comes up. ‘And I want a garden.’

‘A garden.’

‘A scrap of one. Grass. Room for a chair and a cheap barbecue and the people who’ll actually turn up.’ A beat, the wet in it. ‘And the cat.’

‘Dave’s coming.’ Didn’t need asking. ‘He’s nobody’s. You feed him. He’s not staying behind.’

Celyn looks at me. A long one. The mouth doing the thing, the wet and the bright at once.

‘Ron.’

‘What.’

‘Is this a proposal?’

There’s the word. The one I couldn’t get to. The thing the job and the house and the deposit and the bloody cat have all been standing in for, because I haven’t got it in me to say it the way it’s meant, no ring, no knee, a tablet and a damp survey and a man who can’t talk.

‘…Might be.’ Throat tight. ‘Doing it badly.’

‘Terribly,’ Celyn says. ‘Worst one in history. A job email and a house with rising damp.’

‘Is that a yes.’

Celyn climbs into my lap. The weight I know to the gram. The red nails either side of my face, holding my head like it’s load-bearing.

‘Yes,’ Celyn says. In the word, not just the hands. ‘To the badly-asked everything. Both names. My half. My garden. My cat.’

‘Our cat.’

‘Don’t push it.’

I hold on. The hoodie, the stubble against my cheek, the weight in my lap I know to the gram now, the way Celyn’s head fits the curve of my neck.

‘Peckham,’ Celyn says. Into my neck.

‘Peckham.’

‘I’ve never been to Peckham.’

‘It’s alright. Good buses. Decent pub on the corner.’

‘Is there a Tesco.’

‘There’s a Tesco.’

‘Then I’ll survive.’

The window, the bar, the light warm and amber off the sign. The corner table. The table where a stranger sat typing and I watched for thirty minutes and never felt the floor go out from under me.

Dave’s on the bin outside, the judging face, deciding none of this is his concern. He’s wrong. He’s coming too.

Manchester doesn’t end. It stays. The corner table stays, the bar stays, the three years Celyn made a self out of nothing all stay. But the home, the writing room, the spare mug, both names on the deeds, that gets built somewhere south. A wall a week. A year of Sundays.