In my eighties dance gear, I feel very colourful against his grey walls. I should leave, I’m too drunk for this.

‘Yeah, it was fun. I’m sorry. You’re in your pyjamas. I woke you up. I’ll leave you alone. You can have both of the burritos.’ I give him the bag and turn to leave, but he makes a move to try and stop me.

‘Whoa, hold up.’ A familiar hand on my arm. ‘Bea, these are not pyjamas. These are my lounge pants.’

His smile makes me smile and I don’t want to leave.

‘It’s cold, it’s late. You’re exhausted. It’s well past your bedtime. Why don’t we eat the burritos and then you can sleep here and go home in the morning.’

That does sound very tempting, and suddenly all I want to do is sleep. It’s so nice and warm in here; despite now having a boiler that works, I rarely turn it on.

‘Are you sure?’

He gets out a couple of plates and forks, and more than a couple of flower-patterned napkins that I’m sure he didn’t buy himself. It’s nice to think that he still lets his mum buy him the essentials.

He passes me all but one of the napkins. ‘You spill.’

He’s correct there.

‘So, tell me.’

My eyes go wide. ‘Tell you what? There’s nothing to tell.’

‘What happens at a hen party … there can’t be nothing to tell.’

‘Ha.’ I’m relieved, but also a little disappointed. ‘Nothing salacious happened. Just the usual. Strippers, group bonding through humiliation, whipped cream, shots, questionable dancing. You know.’

‘They sound much more friendly than the male version. If I ever coerce someone into marrying me, I don’t think I’d like to have a stag do. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to survive. I think I would cry.’

The talk of marriage makes me clam up a bit. This conversation feels quite loaded. I manage to throw out a single word. Hopefully a lack of words will also mean a lack of mind-reading.

‘Really?’

‘Really. I’ve been on quite a few and they keep getting worse. Every stag do is bigger than the last. And the last one ended with the groom almost getting his manhood taken off by a baby bull. Men are competitive, and ideas are getting riskier with age. I’m not excited to see what happens on the next one.’

‘Men?’ I scoff in a forced, comedic way, hoping to get my heartbeat back to normal. ‘Boys, more like.’

‘Hey. I’m a man. I own lounge pants.’ He motions to his legs. ‘I’ve mowed a lawn.’

I look through the window. I can only see a wall. ‘But you don’t have a garden.’

‘I didn’t say I mowed my own lawn. I’m not a masochist. I would pay someone else to do that. I don’t want my lawn to look terrible.’

‘Again, you don’t have a garden.’

‘Details.’ He shrugs and shovels a forkful of burrito into his mouth.