The Corridor I Didn't Walk Through

The flyer is still there. That's the bit that gets me. The Pleasance has put James Holborn's face right next to mine on the courtyard wall and you can see mine underneath like a ghost in a painting. The new print is shinier. Mine looks like a poster that's been rained on, which it has.

I kept counting the room tonight. Half full. Half full of what — pity, curiosity, strays who wandered in early for the queue outside his door. I made them laugh in places. I made a bit land that I've been carrying for a week. Yara was second row and I did not look at her for the whole set because I was busy managing something. I was busy managing the maths of being watched by someone I like in a room that isn't full while the man programmed against me sells out next door. That's three losses in one frame and I was trying not to add them up.

Holborn did a car park bit in his own hour tonight. Yara told me at the bar, furious on my behalf, and I let her be furious because that's the etiquette — when someone wants to fight your fight, you stand back and let them swing. But I also didn't kiss her in the corridor on the way out. I had the chance. I had the whole shape of it. I just kept walking like the corridor was longer than it was. I'm a coward in a very specific way: I'll write a joke about anything except be honest in a doorway.