The Frog and Bucket boy

She said it twice and I still don't know which one I needed more.

Pryce had his arm round my shoulder calling me the real thing while mum stood two feet away in her new dress. I wanted to laugh it off. Bit. Self-roast. Something. But the Radio 4 producer was writing in a notepad and mum was doing the curry smile and my mouth just stayed shut. The Frog and Bucket boy. I haven't said that out loud in years. Pryce said it like he was handing me back something I'd dropped in the gutter years ago and forgotten about.

I walked her to the cab. She held my arm and said proud and going home tomorrow, both in the same breath, like they cancelled each other out. I let her go. I keep saying that — I let her go — as if grabbing the cab door and saying stay would be a thing I could survive being.

Walked home the long way down the Cowgate. Chest doing that thing where it goes still and I can't tell if it's peace or the start of something worse. Probably worse. Probably always worse.

The hoodie is still on the chair by the radiator. Still hers. I still haven't moved it or washed it. Three people think something of me tonight and I'm lying here trying not to add it up into a total I don't deserve.