His tea is finished. He drains the dregs ostentatiously and rises and she says quickly, ‘Another cup? I’ll have sugar next time.’

He shakes his head. Seriously, she is kind, but they live in the same house and it’s all going to get very awkward if he doesn’t make his position clear. He isn’t interested. He’s never been interested in white women. They always look sickly to him. Even when they are fat, like Susan in London, they seem somehow insubstantial, and Angela is as bony as a bird.

‘I’ve got to …’ he was about to say, do some cleaning, then realises how insulting that would sound, ‘… take my uniform to the launderette. You know, the twenty-pence pieces …’ He makes a circular motion with his hand to indicate the drying machine, which only gives you a few minutes for your twenty pence and fills your clothes so full of static they make a crackling noise when you take them out.

‘That must be hard,’ she says sadly, softly, ‘the night shift, I mean, you must get very tired. Are you on again tonight?’

‘Not really, I sleep during the day. No, not tonight, tonight I’ve got to get back to it, to days.’ It’s the changeover he finds hard.

The room is so small that he has to walk sideways to head towards the door from the bed. Angela stands up too and takes a single step towards him, coming right up to him, so that she is half in his way. He would have to push past her to leave so he stops and stays motionless, waiting to see what she will say or do next. She looks at his chest for a moment or two, then she lifts a hand and, without saying a word, places it flat on the chest, resting it on the old T-shirt he is wearing. She keeps the hand there and stands very still, as if she is waiting for his body warmth to seep through his clothing in order to make sure he is real.

He stands there, not knowing what to say or do, her hand flat against his T-shirt, the fingers spread. She is looking at her hand where it lies against him, frowning slightly, as if she has just discovered a mark on his clothing.

And then his hand does something equally unexpected. It comes up, his right hand, and it covers hers.

She raises her gaze, and looks him in the face. Neither of them speaks. I can’t kiss you, he thinks, it’s not that I can’t remember how to do it, it’s pretty automatic as I recall, it’s that I can’t remember how to want to do it.