It was all so wrong, his nice mood, his dorky joke, when in fact he represented the ruin of my plans, which I had not felt really fine about enacting in the first place, which meant they would have had to work effectively, elegantly, in order for me to think I might have done the right thing.

He once again wore a grey shirt with blooms of blackish sweat, proof he’d ended the day at his gym in Brunswick.

My heart sank, buoyed, sank. It went through squeezing ceremonies. My Richmond friend had no idea that he was the wrong man and had come to the Retreat with an honest intention.

He was looking at me searchingly.

‘I need a drink,’ I said.

‘Roger,’ he said, and disappeared into the bar.

Even this was depressing; he was too compliant! Hadn’t people heard of being perfect, like Dan? I opened my phone and started writing a message to Dan, but realised that it would arrive completely context-free. It was also a further example of a missive where the energy I expended would not be sent back to me. What was he going to write? ‘GREAT STORY. BYE’?

A friendship, a collection of facts, and its practice, a collection of principles.

‘I love this bar,’ the stranger was repeating. I’d stopped paying attention, as always, a terrible sign.

He’d returned from the bar, two gold pints in his hands; I was staring at an open, empty message screen, which hung there vulnerable and open in my hand.

‘So you said,’ I told him. ‘Because it’s near your gym?’

‘Yes,’ he nodded seriously. ‘Because it’s near my gym.’

I nodded at nothing and accepted the pint glass. He sat down.

‘Cheers!’ he said. He took a big gulp, and said, ‘So what do you do with yourself?’

I looked at my beer. Dan had once come home from a dinner party in a rage because the host had banned the guests from saying anything about their jobs. Dan liked talking about his job, an assistant role that he hoped to ‘parlay’ into design but also enjoyed for its own labours. But I’d have rather died than tell someone I was a student, especially someone who lived alone and had a car.

I looked around for signs of a believable profession. The best I could come up with was ‘I’m a beer garden salesman’, but just as I was thinking about saying this, the phone that had been lit up in my hand went dark, and both our eyes were drawn to it. ‘Who were you texting? Dan?’ he asked.

He clapped a hand over his mouth, but he was smiling under it. I stared at him. Oh my god, I thought. Whatever this was, it was messed up.

‘What’s going on,’ I said, in full cucumber coolness.