I told her how I met my first girlfriend in my second week at the University of Manchester, aged eighteen. I was staying in a low-rise student accommodation block that I shared with eight other freshers. For those first weeks I had been generally hiding myself in my room, only venturing into the communal kitchen on the evening when I knew the rest of my flatmates would be out and about enjoying their lives, or pretending that they were. On this particular night I got my timing wrong and came face to face with a girl waiting for her toast to emerge from the toaster. I ignored her at first and made a fuss of searching for my bread and, once found, carefully selecting a couple of slices before resealing the loaf in its plastic packing. The slices were extra thick, which is how I like to receive my toast. I fussed about looking for one of my plates (my mum had given me a set of plastic crockery from Home Bargains with a barn owl’s face as its motif) and placed it on the counter. I didn’t have any butter and had intended to nick someone else’s from the fridge. She had scuppered this plan so I slipped off back to my room to wait for her to leave the kitchen. I returned about five minutes later and she was still stood by the toaster.

‘Hi,’ she said.

‘Hello,’ I replied.

The conversation evaporated and she turned to face the toaster. I walked over to the counter and noticed that my two slices of bread were no longer on my plate. She’s nicked them, I thought, and felt an instant admiration for her. It also put me in the driving seat. I could use this to make her like me. She turned around again and spoke to me while looking towards the hallway to my right.

‘Listen, I’m sorry it’s taking so long. I burnt my first batch. You might want to go back to your room.’

‘No, that’s fine, I’ll wait here. I’m Gary, nice to meet you.’

‘Yeah, same. I’m Layla, I like toast.’

‘Same. It’s very appealing.’

‘Isn’t it.’