I laughed. Or maybe he did. That awkward laughter which wasn’t even laughter; the kind that nearly breaks the tension but doesn’t.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, looking down at my hands. My fingertips felt funny, like they’d just touched something hot. ‘It’s not …’

‘Cait,’ he sighed, tired. ‘Are you about to tell me it’s not me, it’s you?’

‘Maybe.’ I made two fists and then released them, stretching my fingers all the way out. ‘But it is me.’ My voice was shaky. ‘It’s clearly not you.’ I smiled, just. ‘Have you met you? You’re a doctor and you’re smart and nice and normal and you live in a nice apartment and I …’

I looked at him. He was waiting, eyebrow raised in question.

‘I’m a waitress.’

‘You’re a good waitress.’

‘That’s true.’ I shrugged, and he laughed softly. My hands still felt funny. I felt funny. ‘I just don’t do this. I can’t. I’m sorry.’

He didn’t say anything for a second, just watched me. ‘It’s okay. I’m sorry.’

‘No.’ I swallowed. ‘It’s fine.’

‘Are you sure?’

I nodded, bit my lip. I could still taste him. The vodka bottle was on the wall behind him and I wanted a drink but it would mean reaching past him and I wasn’t sure that was safe. He noticed, picked it up and passed it to me, careful to hold it away from himself, like I was careful not to let my fingers touch his as I took for it. At some point, I’d dropped my cigarette. ‘Thanks.’

‘This is a bit like being sixteen again, isn’t it?’

I laughed, giving him the bottle back and picking up my tobacco, opening the pouch. ‘Which part?’

He didn’t answer. A strand of hair fell off my shoulder as I touched a filter to my lip, twice. I brushed it back, half expecting to feel the sting of broken glass.

‘You all right?’ he asked instead.

‘Always,’ I said, rolling myself a cigarette. I waited for him to ask again but he didn’t. He didn’t say anything. I glanced at him as I put the rollie in my mouth, and he was staring straight ahead, completely still except for his fingers, twisting together in his lap.

‘Good,’ he said, with the slightest hint of a nod. ‘That’s good.’

15 TUESDAY, JUNE

15

TUESDAY, JUNE

Donna’s Thoughts were getting worse. She was having nightmares about her car breaking down and having to catch a train, just once. But once was enough. ‘There’s always someone on those trains who’s not meant to be there,’ she said. ‘You know: the person who usually catches the one before or whose mother has a doctor’s appointment.’

Everyone was getting worse.