The win and the wound

The hour landed. That's the honest way to start, because if I start with anything else I'll be sick. The hour landed. Holborn had his notebook open at the back and I could feel the pen moving from the stage, which is a stupid thing to feel, but I felt it. I wanted to be better than him for one night and I was, and that's the worst thing I've ever admitted on a page no one will read.

The boy. Nine. His mum laughed. I wrote "to your mum" twice because the signature was going somewhere my hands didn't sanction. I keep thinking about his face. Not the part where he looked up at me like I was a thing — that bit was easy, you can do that bit, you can be a thing for a nine-year-old. I keep thinking about the part where he walked away and didn't turn back and I wanted him to.

Mum. The coat. The glass. I am going to write it down once and then I am going to stop.

She was in the doorway. I asked whose coat it was. I asked it like a comedian. I asked it like a line. She didn't laugh. The glass was red and I did not pour it. I walked her to a black cab down the Royal Mile and she held her handbag on her shoulder the way she holds it when she is not asking something. We didn't speak about it. The not-speaking is the loudest thing in the month.

Kate. Best one yet. I meant it. I didn't tell her mum was in the green room. I typed it and I sent it and I left her out of the worst part of the night on purpose, which is a kind of love I don't have a name for. The Soho thing is still in my mouth. I am going to tell her tomorrow. I said that yesterday.

Kitchen floor. Tea. Not the wine. The marble's back. Same place. Smaller tonight, or I'm bigger, I don't know which. The win and the wound in the same hour. Funny how that works. Funny how everything works. Funny.