The catch-up still in my pocket

I sat on the bus and read my mate's text and smiled like a child. Haven't done that on a 35 in years. I haven't told anyone about the Soho thing except Steve, and Steve already knew, which is annoying because I wanted the moment when I said it and someone went quiet with the proper weight of it. Instead I got "told you," which is Manchester for I love you, now stop ringing.

Mary called me "the funny one" three times in sixty seconds. I counted. Comedians count. Counting is how I stay in the room when the room is being cruel. Mum does it with a softer word — our Oliver. Mary does it with the. The funny one. The only one. This is your inheritance and your ceiling, lad, take it or leave it.

I walked Yara to the corner before Mary could ask her anything. I know what I did. I protected her from a perfectly nice woman asking a polite question in her sister's exact voice. I also didn't let Yara see what I come from. Both of those things are true and I don't know which one to be sorrier for. She still hasn't texted back. The goodnight last night had a period. Tonight it's got nothing.

The Soho people want a "catch-up" in September. Polite-industry for: we want to offer you something and we're going to pretend we don't for two more weeks so you suffer properly. I am suffering properly. I am standing at the sink washing up plates and not mentioning it. I'm a spy in my own life. I'm the locked bit and I'm choosing the lock.