He asked me what I’m doing this evening; innocent enough. What am I doing this evening? Why, nothing. I am doing nothing this evening. We were alone in there and it was not my suspicion to be judged by anyone but him, so I answered—‘Nothing.’ It seemed such a small, silly word. I lied and said that I would play guitar and watch the television, but the television is not even on. I told him I was going to cook, too, but have not yet lifted a finger to the pans. For some reason, the cat shoots severe stares at me and I do not understand why. I ask, with my hand across the ellipsis of her spine—

‘What’s the matter?’

Next to me an old man eats prawn cocktail crisps, devilish in their smell, departing halfalong the way; he is replaced by a hippy with lines across her face, she paws at her phone, until she sighs and picks at the skin around her nails. It is delightfully quiet.

Where does the cold air come from? I can hear how brittle it is around the innards of my ear. This island’s humidity turns cold into a brute force and when the wind picks up, the gusts ricochet beneath one’s clothes.

L——s invited me along for a drink with some contractors and potential clients down the mud-coloured fronts of Bond St. His hand jazzed over the menu and photographs of scotch eggs, dazzled me with streetviews from a princely summer in the past. I told him—‘No. I didn’t sleep well last night, man. Tired. Can’t stomach it when I’m tired — get all irritable.’

Now the cat sits on the radiator next to me. I draped a t-shirt across it to soften the heat; will iron the t-shirt to wear on the weekend. I do not want to date, although I hope it is just my mood. I just hope it is my mood that drives me to crave being left alone, me to crave doing nothing.