The hoodie stays

She was in my hoodie tonight and I said the words about my mum out loud for the first time. The real ones. The ones I've been carrying around like contraband, too scared to unpack them in case they weren't funny. She sat on the kitchen floor between the slow cooker and the cereal bowls with her knee pressed against mine and watched my mouth the whole time I did it. When I stopped she put her hand on my chest and said, "Show me where." I took her hand and pressed it to the spot just left of centre, the place that always pulls before a show. She didn't move it. She didn't try to fix anything. She just left it there.

She said it's the best thing I've done. I keep turning that over. Best funny or best honest. If I ask her which she meant, she'll tell me, and then I'll have to live with the answer I actually wanted.

Debs told me at the bar that the Holborn Saturday slot has been pulled. I did the nod, the oh-well face, bought the next pint. Inside I was bright with relief. One less room to bomb in. I texted Kate "actually wrote it" and I meant the bit, but I also meant I'm still standing.

She got the bus at eleven. I walked her to the stop on Marchmont Road and I didn't kiss her. I stood on the pavement with my hands in my pockets and let her go. Tomorrow is sold out. The day after, Mum is in the third row. If I go in tonight I will lose the only clean thing I've got, and I am not ready to find out what I look like without it.

The hoodie is on the chair by the radiator. It smells like her. I'm not moving it.