Tea instead of flowers

The hoodie. I posted about the hoodie. I am a man who has put his own chest on the internet twice in twenty-four hours and has now written the word chest three times on a private page too. The maths is bad. I am not doing the maths.

She opened the door in it and I stood there with a bag of Yorkshire Gold looking like a man who had brought tea instead of flowers because flowers felt like too much of an admission. She told me the second pause was buying time, not earning it. I knew she was right before she got to the verb. That's the thing about Yara in the room — I am always arriving half a beat after her. I am always noticing her noticing and then noticing that I noticed.

Walked home through the Meadows feeling sick. Not about her. About the rest of it. Every flyer stapled to a tree was a name I sort of knew. Every poster in a pub window was a year I haven't had. I kept putting people in rooms and giving them scores as I passed. I would like to stop doing that. I will not stop doing that.

The Beehive. Free set. The bloke was alright. Gave him a six, then a seven, then settled on ~~six and a half~~ which is a number I invented in my own head to avoid the smaller one. Then I had a second pint I didn't need and went a bit over the line with the barmaid about the swallow on her forearm and she laughed and I felt good and then I felt bad and now I am writing it down which is what I do when I feel good and then bad, which is: write it down, you coward.

Mum on a B&B day out. I told her about the pasta. I didn't tell her about the 6pm. I will tell her after. She will say well done love and mean it and it will hit worse than any silence in any room.

The pause. I fixed it. I think. I'll know tomorrow at six.