“What’s up?”
“Nothing.”
“Sure?”
“Of course.” Paolo ditched his phone and slid off the counter. “I was just texting Toni back. He’s a pain in the arse when Chelsea are playing. Keeps asking me to tape the matches, like anyone still owns a VCR.”
“You can’t get them on YouTube?”
“Of course. Doesn’t stop him asking me to tape them for him. He forgets stuff.”
Paolo’s eyes darkened again, and Luis realised, not for the first time, that he was out of his depth. He’d never had elderly relatives. His family was small, estranged, and fucked up. He’d never had to worry about the things Paolo worried about, and he’d never hurt the way Paolo did every time the folk who’d raised him faded just a little more.
Luis took the keys from the hook and left the kitchen to open the front door. Unlike weekday mornings, no one was waiting, and previous Sundays had taught him that custom came in lazy trickles rather than mad rushes.
He went back to the kitchen. “Can you take him out?”
“Who?”
“Toni. Is he allowed out of the home?”
“It’s not an institution. He can leave anytime he wants.”
“Take him to the pub, then, to watch the Chelsea game.”
“I have to work.”
“Not if I’m here.”
Paolo’s face broke into a soft smile, weary at the edges, frayed, but still all kinds of lovely. “You’re so fucking sweet.”
Luis laughed, couldn’t help it. “I’m really not.”
“Yeah, you are. No other fucker on earth gives a shit about Toni and his football angst.”
“You’ll take him then?”
“Maybe next week.”
Luis let it go. Paolo was a moody fucker, and despite falling asleep on Luis at ten o’clock the previous night, he seemed tired. Luis made it his mission to give him as little as possible to do, an easy task with the slow custom.
But still, Paolo flagged.
An hour before closing, he came into the kitchen, pale and rubbing his temples. “Man, I feel rough.”
Luis ran a tray through the dishwasher. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks.”
“You want me to lie to you?”
“Keeping your observations to yourself would be better.”
Paolo grinned a little, but it looked like a struggle. Luis abandoned the dirty plates and crossed the kitchen to where Paolo was slumped over the counter. He rubbed his back, absorbing the excessive heat beneath Paolo’s clothes. “You’re hot.”
“That’s more like it,” Paolo said.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
