Ben and Chloe sat at opposing sides of the kitchen table; a rectangular, austere slab of wood whose dark lacquer had faded in its centre. It was probably an original element of the house like an organ in a body, growing old together, inseparable until the reaper comes a-calling in the guise of a wrecking ball.

A sickly filter covered the entire room. The maple cabinets and fittings had blenched to a yellowish off-white. The same could be said for the magnolia walls, and the floor tiles whose grouting resembled a fisherman’s net.

‘It’s the bulb,’ Chloe said, looking up from her laptop. ‘My housemate picked up a replacement when the old one fizzled out. No, you’re not losing your mind. And yes, everything is fucking yellow.’

A sliding glass door exhibited their reflections but stored the back garden in the dark. Night had fallen the second Ben turned his back on it, between the front door and the kitchen. He could make out the distant square of a neighbour’s window like a glowing frame hung from a star, but nothing else. His reflection – that bedraggled-looking imposter – was always in the way.

He rolled his knuckles over his eyelids. Whatever focus he thought he had was fading fast.

Chloe’s fingers tapped in rapid bursts. A heart surgeon wouldn’t have looked so preoccupied. Ben had yet to begin. As his technological demands were deemed as trifling, he was given the lofty honour of using Chloe’s old laptop. It was still booting up after ten minutes, its fan humming like a plane set for take-off.

‘What are you working on first?’ he asked, slouching over the table.

‘What am I working on first?’ she repeated slowly, making every syllable sound, still squinting at the screen, typing away.

Chloe spun her laptop around like a magician revealing the card she had told you to remember. Ben leaned forward to get a closer look. A rough 3D church comprised of blue lines was on the screen. Ben recognised the shape of its altar and the narrow window frames. Red letters were suspended over points of interest, probably as links to notes or photographs. In its digital format the whole building looked too clean. There were no weeds or imperfections. And no feeling to it which he knew, having stood within its walls, was not true. There was a very particular type of sadness there: old and silent, but very much alive.

‘How did you throw that together so quickly?’ he asked, pivoting the laptop back to face her.

‘This isn’t my first church, Benny Boy. All I had to do was input the measurements and tweak it a little. You historians wouldn’t understand.’

A resounding ping came from Ben’s laptop, a touch too loud and slightly distorted.

‘It actually turned on?’ Chloe said, grinning at him.

‘Why do you sound so surprised?’

This was it. The age of procrastination was over.