‘I thought I’d check you were okay,’ the voice says, and I look up to see Mark handing over his bowling shoes.

‘You’ve got the days of the week on your socks.’ It’s not really a question so much as a statement, an observation. A way to deflect from how hard I’m working at holding myself together.

‘Present from my mum,’ he says. ‘They’re oddly addictive. I had a pair of Thursdays on yesterday and everything went to pot!’ He makes me smile, I’ll give him that. ‘You want a drink somewhere? You want food? Or do you just want to go home and wallow in your pyjamas?’ It’s almost like he knows me. ‘Because I can go along with any of those.’

‘Do your pyjamas have the days of the week on too?’ I ask, taking my shoes from the attendant.

‘Would it make a difference to your answer if they did?’

I give him a look, stepping into my shoes.

‘So that was the ex then?’ Mark asks, tying up the laces on a pair of tan brogues.

‘Hmm?’

‘The bloke with a face I’d like to punch.’

‘I’m a lover, not a fighter Mark,’ I say. ‘Though maybe if you had punched him, I might feel better.’

‘To be honest, I’m no fighter either. I’d probably miss, or break a bone in my hand.’ He holds open the door for me as we walk out. The summer evening is easing into a pink, blue and grey dusk; a few stars emerge as I look, out of place in a sky not yet dark. ‘Pretty,’ I say, straining my neck to look up and beyond the brick and metal of the cinema, bowling alley and fast food restaurants.

‘Yes,’ he says, quietly, and when I look back, he’s not staring at the stars but at me. With a look on his face that confuses the hurt in my soul.

‘It was my ex,’ I explain. ‘He cheated on me. He is not worth my time or my tears. My head knows this, but…’

‘Hearts sometimes need to do a bit of catching up,’ he says, pulling me in for a side squeeze. He smells all warm and sweet and not entirely unpleasant. I realise he’s smelling my hair. ‘Come on,’ he says, pulling back and putting a barrier between us, despite offering me his arm. ‘Let me take you home, okay? At least then I can head into town, drink too much and pick up some woman without wondering if you made it home or not.’

‘Wow, you really know how to romance a girl,’

‘You didn’t look like you wanted romancing.’ He smiles.

‘I was talking about whoever you pick up tonight.’

‘Oh.’ He laughs to himself. ‘To be honest, I’ll probably just pick up a bottle of wine and head home. Watch some telly. Read a book. Sleep.’

He flags a cab down and opens the door for me to get in. I buckle up as he sits in the pull-down chair in front of me. His feet stretch out to the side of mine; each time we go over a bump our legs touch. ‘Sheffield’s pretty at night,’ he says, looking at the waterfall as we pull up at the traffic lights. ‘Look how the water reflects the dusk.’ We stare in silence before he breaks it with, ‘I like it here.’ He nods, looking at me with an intensity that makes my belly flip a little. Nerves? Are those butterflies once again lodging in my stomach? And if so, what the hell are they doing there? ‘It’s a place I can see myself staying for a while.’ I bite my lip. His comment is pointed, but I’m too upset to try and navigate it, or my feelings around it.