‘You made that up,’ I say and get up to signal that he should leave, but instead I walk around the table, stretch out my hand and for a moment I study it in the light, as if my movement surprises me. The hand looks pale, almost transparent.

Then I put my hand on his head, letting my nails trace the comb marks in his hair, all the way to the reddishblond tips by his neck, his shoulders. I bend over and stick my tongue in his ear, tickling the little hairs on his earlobe, let it slide around his jaw to his chin, follow it up towards his mouth and start sucking his lower lip. It’s warm. Then I let go and keep sliding, my lips stroking his day-old stubble. His whole body has warmed at contact and his muscles flex. And for every bit of him I lick and kiss, he shrinks a little before me, as if I’m rubbing him out with my lips, as if his face is disappearing into mine and only the skin remains, white and shiny like the empty sundial in front of City Hall.

Seasnails

Seasnails

THE BREWERY STANK of cigarette smoke, whisky breath and last night’s sweat. I stood by the sink and closed my eyes, felt my head burning and tried to imagine that it was the memories of Pym’s body catching fire, that he crumpled like paper and withered into a little lump. When I opened my eyes again the air was just as heavy and the memories just as strong. The tap water tasted thick and salty. I imagined the sink filling up with starfish and shells.

‘So, what happened between Pym and Jo?’ Carral was standing behind me, a glass in her hand. I hadn’t heard her approach.

‘Good morning to you, too.’

She smiled and prodded my arm.

‘Come on. Admit it. You like him.’

I pulled away from her and went to the fridge, firmly opened the door and took out a carton of apple juice.

‘No, I don’t think I do like him.’

Carral tilted her head. ‘But he liked you.’

‘Oh?’

‘He was writing for you, and then …’

I poured the juice in a glass and took a big gulp to wash away the salty flavour. The juice tasted faintly of fermentation.

‘Did you see what he wrote though? It was pretty weird, and he’s pretty weird,’ I said and wondered if she could see what had happened reflected on me. My body felt see-through, like a jellyfish.

‘You were a little harsh,’ she continued.

‘And you were sloshed,’ I said. ‘Pym thought you were ill.’

I took another sip, and the taste brought to mind the rotting apples in the compost. Carral stared back at me and followed the juice sinking down my clear jellyfish throat.