Should I try to find the number for the commune? It is the middle of the night. Still, Neil hates mismatched socks, so he might be grateful. Or he might say it’s just like me; I couldn’t leave him alone for a minute. It’s only been three weeks. Barely. Did he even take the other sock with him? And if he did, does it look anything like this burnt, solitary one? Did he condemn it to the same destiny? Or is the other sock hiding somewhere else in the flat? Have I lost it, dropped it somewhere I can’t remember? Did I shrink it? Is it my fault? What would I say on the phone?

‘Hello, I’d like to speak to Neil Pratchett.’

‘What is your full name, madam, and what is the reason for your call?’

They would sound suspicious, like I was trying to get through to a prison ward. I bet they worry that calls from the external world will steer their disciples from their path. I would never do that. I respect his wishes. I have respect for us both.

‘I’m just trying to return a sock.’

Maybe they too have rules about footwear, like prisons. No shoelaces, no steel toes, no leather. No leather for sure. Is cashmere even vegan? I’m sure I’ve read somewhere it’s made by caterpillars. Insects are animals too. You should always feed sugared water to a troubled bee. Can an ant be called an ant, when it’s on its own, or does it only ever exist as part of an anthill? A part of a whole. And this sock is so alone and so soft and is breaking my fucking heart in two. I throw it in the non-recyclable waste bin.

I’d like to live somewhere where socks, at least, come in couples.

That night, I sleep a dreamless sleep.

The next morning, at dawn, I lift the lid of the pot. I walk to work instead of taking public transport, my pockets heavy, my hands sunk deep inside. Every few steps I pull my fist out, unfold it rapidly. I leave a trail for the small birds of London. Quinoa, vialone and chia. Soon, the birds will eat up the seeds.

I’ll have to find my own way back home.

SUGAR

Neil

The Night After the Break-up

For the first time in ten years I am living alone and I want clarity, which I could never achieve in Ruth’s presence. But even as I lie here, on this MDF bed, not quite the commune in Cornwall, but a flat near my office, between the four bare walls of my new room, Ruth inhabits my mind. That is the place where she first took up lodgings. In the beginning, before I had even met her.