Page 83 of Undefined Terms

Two Guinness, the foam still settling, the table by the window where nobody sits because the draught comes through the frame. He sits there on purpose, says he likes the cold. The cold matters to him.

‘You look like shite,’ he says.

‘Cheers.’

‘No, properly. When did you last sleep?’

I don’t answer that, pick up the pint. The first sip that tastes like nothing because the mouth’s too dry. The second sip that tastes like Guinness.

‘I’m sleeping fine.’

Ewan does the thing with his face. The one where he doesn’t believe you and doesn’t bother pretending he does. Got that from Mum. The mouth stays flat but the eyes go somewhere else. A place where your bullshit doesn’t reach.

‘Right.’

The pub’s half-empty, Thursday. A couple by the bar arguing about whose round it is, the telly on mute. Football, European, two teams I don’t care about. The carpet’s got that sticky thing, the kind where your boots peel off it when you shift and the sound is loud enough to hear across the room.

‘Jay and Thomas,’ I say.

Don’t plan to say it. Just. Comes out, like coughing, the pint goes down. Jay and Thomas between us.

Ewan doesn’t move. The Guinness in his hand. The posture doesn’t change but something else does. Tightens, enough.

‘What about them.’

‘They moved tables. In the portacabin. Lunch. Didn’t say why. Just. Got up and moved.’

‘Right.’

‘And Thomas. After. Came up to me at the block stack and said “no offence, Ron, but I don’t want to hear about it.” Said keep it separate.’

Ewan puts the pint down. Slow. Places it on the mat like the mat matters.

‘And you said?’

‘Asked him why Gaz gets to talk about his bird for twenty minutes.’

‘Good.’

‘He didn’t have an answer.’

‘They never do.’

Pub, draught, telly on. Ewan’s hands flat on the table, the long fingers, clean, the nails short. Laurence’s influence. The Ewan I grew up with had bitten nails and a nervous knee. This one’s still. Anchored in something. Someone.

‘You want me to say it gets easier,’ Ewan says.

I look at him.

‘Does it?’

‘No.’ He picks up the pint again. Drinks. ‘You get better at not caring.’

Ewan’s been hearing it since he was thirteen. I’ve been hearing it for a month and already the sound of it is everywhere.

‘It’s not what they said.’ My hands on the glass. The condensation. ‘The first thing I thought was dad.’

Ewan’s face. The eyes that go very quiet. The brother eyes. The ones from when we were kids and I’d done something stupid and he’d look at me like that and decide whether to tell Mum.