Rory collected his prints and stayed. Leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a posture that pushed his shirtsleeves tighter against his forearms and made the muscles underneath shift. He tilted his head.
‘So, Mr Ashworth.’ Light. Conversational. Eyes that tracked down Neil's face and paused, for just a beat, at his mouth. ‘Bet you're strict about grammar.’
‘I believe in structure.’
‘Structure.’ He held the word up like something found on the ground and examined. ‘What about mess? Where does mess fit?’
‘Mess doesn't fit. That's its defining characteristic.’
‘That's one way to look at it. Another way is that mess is where the interesting stuff happens. Every good painting starts as a mess.’
‘Paintings aren't sentences.’
‘No. Paintings are better. Sentences need commas. Paintings just need nerve.’
‘I'd argue that a well-placed comma requires considerable nerve.’
‘Would you?’
‘The comma in 'Let's eat, Grandma' is the difference between a meal and a crime.’
Rory laughed. Low, a sound that lived somewhere in Neil's chest before he could stop it. ‘Fair point. So you're a man who believes in the life-saving comma.’
‘Among other things.’
‘What other things?’
‘Structure. Clarity. The correct use of the semicolon.’
‘Nobody uses the semicolon correctly.’
‘I do.’
‘Yeah.’ Rory's eyes held his. The amusement was still there but interest had joined it, the quiet, focused kind, something steadier. ‘I bet you do.’
It wasn't about punctuation.
A beat. Two. The copier hummed between them. The fluorescent light buzzed. The room was too small and Rory was too close and the folder was doing its job and Neil needed to leave before his body made a decision his brain couldn't support.
‘I'm not an easy sell, Cavanaugh. I'm a colleague running off mock papers.’
‘With your folder pressed against you like a riot shield. Like it was doing a job.’
Neil's fingers dug in. ‘Professional habit.’
‘Right.’ Rory uncrossed his arms. Let them drop. The movement drew Neil's attention to those paint-stained fingers, ochre in the creases, blue under one thumbnail. ‘Don't let me keep you from your riot shield.’
He picked up his prints. Walked past. In the doorway, half-turned, one shoulder against the frame. He opened his mouth. Closed it. The half-smile instead, loaded, unresolved.
He left. Neil didn't move, with his folder pressed against his traitor crotch and the conviction that the last two weeks of avoidance had been an exercise in futility.
That Friday evening. Freddie at Gemma's for the weekend.
She met him at the door, tea towel over one shoulder. Her new companion, Owen, somewhere inside, the telly, something roasting. The house was warm and lit and the easy comfort of people who liked being home. A shoe rack by the door with four sizes of shoes. A coat hook with Freddie's raincoat beside Owen's jacket. The domestic architecture of a family.
His ex-wife had built a real home for herself; Neil was glad of it.
‘You look terrible,’ Gemma said.
