‘Go on,’ Dan nodded at me. ‘Do open the pantry.’

‘Fine,’ I said. I opened the cupboard door.

My eyes were closed. ‘Should I look?’ I said.

‘Of course you should,’ said Dan.

Inside the kitchen cupboard was a wall of folded towels – bath towels, face washers, handtowels, and, of course, the dressing gowns modelled by Dan and Lachlan, my favourite couple; two rows of these dressing gowns occupied the bottom level of this floor-to-ceiling pantry. Each one of these things was the same deep green colour, luxurious and uniform and thick, thick, thick.

I turned around. They watched neutrally. ‘What does it mean?’ I asked.

‘It’s not really a mystery,’ said Lachlan. ‘The people who own this apartment run a towel supply company.’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘And that’s the towel game,’ said Dan.

I frowned. ‘Huh?’ I said.

But before he could reply, or try to not reply, whatever, there was the sudden sound of two people fumbling at the apartment door. They made a helpless music of turning knobs and sticking deadlocks, and with everything coming together lately – ducks with toes, towels with towels – why not also these ones, porous walls with porous walls, the flimsiness of this building and the flimsiness of home. I was nastily pleased that, in this expensive apartment, everyone was still exposed to swarms of bumps and sounds. I braced myself for the arrival of their producers.

Chris L was wearing a neat pair of diamond-patterned boxers, tastefully covered in a peacock-patterned shawl, and of course his sunglasses, in this sunny kitchen. Vivian was strangely wearing white boxer briefs only, which formed a trifecta, with the swimming trunks and sweatpants, of clothing that was irresponsible and inappropriate, his dick being revealed with escalating clarity.

I tried not to see this as a progression. For the whole time since the door had started bumping and clanging, I’d been nervous to know what would happen when they both got through, whether Vivian would say something telling and salacious that made my couch friendship with Chris L seem liarly and gross. It is terrible to realise that you have something to lose, even if that something isn’t much and it’s new and largely based on a brief spell of mutual TV-watching. But my relationship with Chris L had extended past whatever milestone where I should have told him I’d been to Vivian’s place, and now if Vivian did say something I would be found out as an unsuitable friend, false and creeping.

But I understood that Vivian would not produce such a reveal; he was obviously surprised to see anyone in the kitchen, and after looking at us, one by one, he made the decision to keep marching towards us in his briefs alone. Chris L walked straight to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of orange juice without saying hi to anyone, which I thought was kind of great because it was not his apartment, compounding the egregiousness of neglecting to warn Vivian that anyone might be here.