You were already heading down the road. Unsure of what to do, I set off behind you. Held back, waiting for you to end the call. We hadn’t got far when you pocketed your phone, and I took a huge breath before shouting, ‘Samuel.’ Nothing. ‘Samuel.’

The white of your headphones still peeked through your hair. You were no longer talking, so it must have been music that filled your ears. I was uncertain what to do. In hindsight, I should have run up and tapped you on the shoulder. But I stayed behind you. Dropped back further. And as we walked together but not together, I felt something in contrast to the diminished husk you’d reduced me to in your office. Close to you without you knowing. Observing your walk. The slight dip when you dropped onto your left foot. The back of your hair floating in the breeze. Your hand reaching into your pocket like it always did. It was strange how it both excited and relaxed me. I was your invisible shadow. And I felt powerful.

You reached the cemetery. The point at which I should have torn myself away. But I didn’t. It was all so easy to continue on your heels. Until you stopped. And I stopped. Heart thumping, I ducked into a driveway, terrified you’d turn and see me. But you were just pausing to fiddle with your handset, then walked on again. As did I.

Once on your street, I didn’t cross with you. I made it to Edward’s block and stepped under the canopy. My body flat against the pillar, my head turned towards you. An elderly Hitchcock blonde, with unnecessary sunglasses and headscarf, was being pulled by an overenthusiastic Labrador towards your flats. You reached the door at the same time. The dog sniffing you, tail swishing. You patted its head, made indecipherable small talk with Tippi Hedren before unlocking the door and holding it open for her to enter first. Then it shut. And you were gone.

I stayed there for some time. Staring up towards the light of your flat. Unable to see you, though comforted by your proximity.

Yet it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. But then I remembered about Friday. That there was always the Wheatsheaf.

It had been …

It had been some time since Dale and I had ventured to Connelly’s, though nothing about it had changed. I don’t think anything about it had changed since the 1990s. We chose the shithole as our local purely due to laziness and economics. It’s hard to say what specifically made it a shithole. Perhaps the strip lighting, or the dated mahogany furniture covered in foam oozing burgundy velour, or the clientele: football supporters and ageing alcoholics, the two interchangeable. Or perhaps it was Gavin, the psycho landlord.

After an awkward walk from the house, Dale held the door open for me to enter.