“Yes, you did.”
“When?”
He shrugs. “I have no idea. Maybe you just thought it too loud, huh?”
When it comes to how my brain behaves around Ludo, I’ll believe anything. And my silence seems to amuse him even more.
“You’re definitely not the arsehole you think you are.”
“I am.”
Ludo steps away.
I panic and grab his arm. “Where are you going?”
“Home. You?”
I hold up my bag. “Same. Um... can I, uh, see you some time?”
“See me?”
“Yeah, like get a drink—a coffee or something?”
“Why?”
“Because I like spending time with you.”
I can tell it’s on the tip of Ludo’s tongue to repeat his question, but he seems to catch himself and slowly nods.
“If you want. I can give you my number?”
He writes his phone number on my arm with a bright green Sharpie he digs out of his bag. His touch, as ever, nearly brings me to my knees, but I hold it together long enough to let him leave me again.
I watch him walk away, head bowed, tatty backpack slung over one shoulder. He moves like the world weighs him down, and I want to chase him across the road and ease his burden, but I’m in no state to chase anyone, and so I let him go and make my way home.
After delivering the bumper order of Coke to the old geezer upstairs, I retreat to the garden to feed the cat. He crawls out of the bushes and scarfs the food like it’s been days since he last ate, not the few hours that have passed since I fed him this morning.
I don’t actually know if the cat is male. It’s an assumption I made a while ago, but I was drunk at the time, and I can’t remember why. It’s stuck anyway, and despite the fact the damn thing is a pest, I’m glad he survived my absence. Some days he’s the only living soul I talk to. I used to relish that. I don’t anymore.
The digits Ludo has scrawled on my skin tingle. I programme them into the shitty prepay phone Michael brought me and wonder why I didn’t do it on the street. Why I didn’t save Ludo the trouble of digging through his bag for a pen. Then I remember how it felt when he gripped my wrist and twisted my arm to suit him, and for once I thank my subconscious for doing me a favour.
I need a drink.
No, I don’t. I haven’t touched the stuff since Ludo rescued me from the slow death I was dying on the pavement opposite his house. It’s been hard... too hard to back up my assertion that I’m not physically dependent on it, but at the same time, it’s been easier than I deserve too. Truth is, I’m so fucking embarrassed that he saw me like that, on top of what he saw in the hospital, that my pride has kept me sober. How long that would’ve lasted if I hadn’t run into him is anybody’s guess.
My hands are still shaky. I alternate between sitting on them and clinging to my phone as though it’s life raft in a drifting sea of apathy, staring at the blank screen. My cravings for a sweet hit of booze are at an all-time high, but they’re eclipsed by something else, and with twitching thumbs, I unlock my phone and start typing.
Aidan:hey
* * *
I zoom—ha, limp—around my flat like a man possessed, tidying shit that doesn’t need tidying, thankful that the sum total of my life belongings amount to little more than a small TV and the stack of magazines I brought home from the hospital. For reasons I’m yet to understand, I’ve invited Ludo over, and I’m so fucking nervous my head feels like it might explode at any moment.
Your place is a shithole.
But there’s nothing more I can do about that, so I check the fridge for in-date milk and then collapse on my couch, clutching my phone, rereading our brief message exchange for the thousandth time.
Aidan:hey
