“It’s not a lifestyle choice. It’s just…a consequence of other lifestyle choices.”

Laughing, Oliver squirted the cupboard again and started to scrub, with a predesignated surface scrubber. I knew it was predesignated because they lived in a separate, subtly different pot from the washing-up sponges, and I’d once made the mistake of trying to clean a plate with one. Embarrassingly, it was one of our worst-ever arguments.

As he scrubbed, his head and shoulders disappeared inside the cupboard, leaving me with ample opportunity to appreciate his arse which—sweatpants or no—was sort of jutting up perkily and moving back and forth in time with his very diligent cleaning.

“Is that what you’re doing?” he asked from the interior of the kitchen unit.

“Staring at your arse?”

“Oh, that’s what you’re doing? But no, I mean…stealth moving.”

Honestly, I’d been hoping he wouldn’t notice that. “Well, your place is bigger than mine and it’s nicer and you wash your sheets and…you’re in it.”

“I’m glad I merited some mention among the list of utilities.”

“To be fair, you can come round to my flat. Your dishwasher can’t.”

“You should get a dishwasher, Lucien,” he said somewhat predictably. “They’re actually more ecologically efficient than hand washing.”

“I could but I’ve gone for the even more environmentally friendly strategy of using someone else’s dishwasher, thus saving the upfront environmental impact of installation and the long-term environmental impact of us running two separate dishwashers.”

Oliver sat back on his heels. “Even before we met, I never ran my dishwasher at half load.”

“I did that one time. And I said I was sorry.” I couldn’t tell if this was going really off track or really on track. “But it does sort of make my point. If I had a dishwasher in my flat, I’d run it at half load all the time. I’d have to—I’ve only got two plates.”

“You could always buy more plates?” Oliver suggested.

“True. Or I could just stay here and use yours.”

Swapping the designated scrubber for a carefully rationed piece of paper towel, Oliver returned to the cupboard. “I suppose that is the best strategy from a strict carbon-footprint perspective.” The scrubbing continued. “And, well, since as you observe you’ve rather stumbled into living here anyway, if you wanted to… Well, there’s a certain logic in making it an official arrangement.”

The part of me that was terrified of commitment, betrayal, and finding myself ten years down the line telling Oliver to fuck off at his wedding gave a little yelp. The part of me that was terrified of blowing a good thing gave a different yelp. I let them yelp at each other for a bit and tried to distract myself by turning my attention to Oliver’s arse.