He doesn’t look either. The not-looking has its own grammar by now.
Today, panel B—two o’clock.
The conference hall seats three hundred. Wood paneling, flattering lighting. I take a seat near the back, my natural habitat. Femi’s in the row ahead, notebook ready, because Femi attends everything.
The moderator introduces the panel: three speakers, the third name.
‘Dr Hugo Lockhart. Cambridge.’
Two words. The moderator says more, but those are the two I hear.
Properly tall, six-two, maybe six-three; the height that reorganises a room. Clean-shaven, the face of a man designed for press photos and alum newsletters. White shirt, open collar, no tie. No eyeliner, no rings, no jewellery, nothing that signals anything except expensive and certain.
He reads straight. A gay man the world doesn’t clock because it doesn’t know where to look.
My gut drops.
He speaks as Laurence speaks, precise, structured, the same cadence, but faster. More confident. He doesn’t pause to consider his audience.
I look at Laurence. Front row, end seat, the posture of a man watching a device diffuse itself, and not sure whether to want it to. His hands are on his knees. Perfectly still. The stillness I know.
Hugo makes a joke about a mathematician walking into a bar. Everyone laughs. Laurence doesn’t.
Twenty minutes. Where Laurence holds back, Hugo expands. Where Laurence offers space, Hugo fills it.
I sit in my Lewisham hoodie with my rings and my eyeliner and my nineteen years, and I look at this man, this tall, built, and I think:so that’s what Laurence goes for.
I don’t flinch. Externally.
Coffee break, the conference mill. Cups and saucers and the same three conversations re-forming.
I’m at the biscuit table when it happens. Hugo crosses the room towards Laurence. Straight line, no hesitation.
He touches Laurence’s arm. The thumb on the inside of the elbow. Placement, duration, they both know it. Hugo says something. Laurence’s mouth moves. The words stay swallowed, unreachable. Hugo leans in, smiles—the smile of someone sharing a private joke.
Laurence doesn’t pull away. The muscle memory hasn’t.
Biscuit. Crushed in my grip. Crumbs on my fingers, and I didn’t feel myself squeezing.
I catch Laurence in the corridor outside the toilets. Subtle as a car alarm.
‘Who is he? Why were his hands on you?’
‘Hugo doesn’t understand boundaries.’ Measured. Careful, pre-built. ‘He never did. It’s partly why we ended.’
Partly.Doing heavy lifting. The rest of the story is still in Laurence’s mouth, and he’s choosing not to open it.
I walk away. The corridor swallows the distance between us, and I feel that I’m being watched on my back like the weather is changing.
The courtyard has a fountain that isn’t running and stone benches designed for contemplation.
I’ve quit three times. Each relapse has a man’s name attached to it.
The Vienna air is cold and sharp, and the sky is a vicious blue, too good for this city.
I sit on the bench. Think about.
‘Interesting talk, wasn’t it?’
