I grab on to his change of gear gratefully. We talk, and he listens when I speak and somewhere inside me there’s a twang, like a tuning fork has been struck deep in my stomach and I can feel the reverberations. It should be Jonathan here; it should be Jonathan hearing what I have to say. The wine has gone to my head now, but there’s a clarity too. I would swap them, I think. I would have Jonathan in exchange for Ben, in exchange for anyone; today I would swap them. After a few more dinners, a few more glasses of wine, more seconds and minutes and hours of these calm sky blue eyes—or other eyes, as Ben is not the point; the point is that Ben is here, where Jonathan should be and is not and never will be—at some point I would no longer choose to swap. The wine is allowing me a certain honesty: we will not last through a long separation, Jonathan and I. Both of us are too good at learning to survive wherever we happen to find ourselves. And then I think: I already knew that, and yet I chose to separate us anyway.

It’s not late when we leave, not even half past nine. The darkness hasn’t had a chance to thicken, and the headlamps of Ben’s car cut through it comfortably. The radio came on automatically when Ben started the car and is now playing something I know from my university years but can’t name. Something that conjures up late nights writing essays in my student halls of residence, fueled by caffeine. Portishead, maybe. Or Massive Attack. I am warm and well-fed and full of wine; it would be easy to settle into the snug hold of the leather seat and drift off to sleep, but Ben mutters under his breath, and I glance across to see him frowning.

“What’s up?”

“Just the tire feels a little heavy. Maybe a bit flat. I’ll check it when I drop you off.”

We’re already crunching onto the gravel of the Manse drive. There’s a light on inside, but there always is now, even in daytime.

“I’ll open up and put more lights on, then you might see the tire better,” I offer.

“Thanks.”