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He feels the pressure of opposition, and he has to go somewhere, get off the street. Anywhere will do, as long as it’s quiet. A quiet interior. He walks around, looking for the right kind of place, all the while feeling as if there’s something in his chest about to fly out screaming. He finds a hall. It’s unlocked, no people inside, just him.  It’s like a community hall. That sort of thing. It doesn’t really matter. It smells like a primary school. That smell, of children, thirty or so of them breathing in and out at the same time and filling the air with their sticky breaths. Primary school. That’s a good memory.

It’s subdued in the hall, mellow and airy. Not silent though, but that’s alright. The traffic outside, you can hear its hum and its throb. In a way it’s reassuring to know that everything is going on beyond and that none of it is touching him in here. He grabs a chair from a stack and sits in a corner. If someone comes and says something, he’ll say he was feeling unwell and came in to recover. He wouldn’t really be lying.

Dust motes in a shaft of sun. He starts to breathe in the peace with a slow simple rhythm. His chest loosens. His body feels steady. Is this calmness? he wonders. But how long will it last? Things like this, they usually end too soon. Silence, for example, is always about to be shattered. A piece of music fades, or shuts off. Stories break off. Things end, in their way. The thought makes him feel rushed, as if he has to grab at the moment.

He shuts his eyes. Maybe sleep, then. Try to doze. Perhaps that’s the answer. Often he does this, comes to places like this. It works, mostly. And when it doesn’t, it doesn’t. But that’s okay. It’s okay, because mostly it works.

Front of the house

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Look at him working. The way he smiles at every customer. He’s impeccable. But when he goes to his room at the back, at the side of the kitchen, the smile is gone. He sips clear liquor from a teacup, swears under his breath, and watches everything through the small glass in the door. When he sees a new customer, he’s out to greet them, bounding over, showing them to a table. Then as he bows slightly, moving away, he nods to a waiter to bring menus, water. He returns to his room, sits down, stares through the glass, sips at the liquor. No one would ever guess. He seems impeccable.

First day of summer

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The heat surprised us early in the morning, and after noon it was pressing down. The first day of summer, I called it. Roddy said it was a phantom. We closed the curtains and sat around without clothes. My back was slick with sweat, and the backs of my knees. Roddy touched me, but he made a face and wiped his hand on the couch. We argued about it. I grabbed a towel and went out the back. He stayed inside.

He sent me an SMS. Hi Martin, it began. My Sunday name. But the message was full of typos and nonsense. He knew it’d make me laugh. I wrote one back, cordial, adding a smile. It went on like that, and things were repaired. I stayed outside though. It was easier than talking.

I heard Pino rustling round in his backyard, tapping his dodgy thermometer. He peered over the fence. 29 degrees, he said eventually, a fag bobbing at his lips. Beautiful, I said. Yes, beautiful, he said. He stared. But maybe you’re burning. Here, he said, indicating the shade below the fence. I moved. That’s better, he said.

When it got dark it cooled but not by much. The air filled with tiny ashy insects. I dozed to the tickle of papery wings at my eyelids and inside my ear. When I woke it was balmy, the insects were gone. The air was perfumed with night scented flowers and cigarette smoke. I turned on the tap and the hose kicked and spat. I aimed the spray on myself, drenching myself. The back door opened, and Roddy was standing like a naked ghost. What the fuck, he said. You’ll wake the neighbours. He came over, turned off the hose, but he was smiling. Come inside now, he said. I’m wet, I said. It’s late, come inside, he said.

Laundry

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There are too many choices, and he can’t decide, so in the end he stays home and does some laundry. He sits outside on the battered chair and watches the washing drying on the line. While he watches, he smokes cigarettes and drinks milky coffee. He’s forgotten the ashtray so he flicks the ash onto the ground. He remembers how he used to drink his coffee black and long because that’s how they drank it in the American police shows on TV. Sharp artificial scents from the laundry reach him. As the fabrics dry, the smell softens into flowers and sweet afternoons. A friend phones. Just for a chat, they say. He tells them he’s been busy today. Busy, busy. Another friend calls soon afterwards. He tells them the same thing. He wonders why they called. He remembers his first mobile phone, and plays with his toes. The washing moves lazily in the breeze. He thinks of a word: Waft. It’s a clumsy word. He’s not sure if a fabric can waft. It can be used for wafting, he’s fairly sure of that. But the more he considers it the less sure he gets. He’s been chain smoking, and there’s a nutty taste in his mouth. The coffee’s gone cold and thin, so he makes some more. And then he feels sleepy, despite the coffee. It’s probably the warm milk. He closes his eyes, and his head keeps flopping forwards. He sits up, and tries to recall what he’s been thinking about all the time he’s been out there. A chill starts to fall and the light shifts into a flinty grey. He shudders. He unpegs the washing from the line, takes it inside, and locks the door. He folds the washing and makes a tall neat pile on the table. He looks outside, at the chair and the empty line in the cooling garden. There’s a cat out there, staring back. He wonders what to have for dinner.

Number 58

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20150821_121018It was a short-term lease, and now their couch is gone from out the front. Some nights they’d sit there in underwear, onesies, crazy hats; talking, but only to each other, and smoking and playing. And by early morning the night’s detritus of notebooks, clothes, packets, bottles, would be strewn in still life over the couch and ground, out of reach over the fence.