We walk via the river. Ben said he’d walk me home. I told him he should just walk me to a bus stop, since otherwise he’ll be going out of his way, but he kept insisting, so I’ve told him that I need to pop into the studio before going home. And, so, we’re heading to Vauxhall. Ben’s looking at a text on his phone. “It’s Anj,” he says. “Sorry, do you mind if I—” He holds his phone up.

“No, go ahead,” I say, and, while we walk down Grosvenor Road, the river on one side, a group of guys across it yelling something, he silently types for a bit.

For some reason, it makes me feel jealous to hear Anju’s name—or, not exactly jealous, but inadequate, like I’m somehow less because Anju exists and Ben is talking to her, even though I’m here next to him. I look up at his face while he’s looking down at his phone. I look at all the freckles clustered around his nose, his bright pink, healthy-looking lips, the two veins under the skin on his forehead that are very faint but just visible, the part of his neck in the shadow of his shirt collar. I’m not sure what I feel when I look at him in this way. I’m not sure what it is that I’m looking at—what he means to me, what he is to me, what I want from him. I get the urge to reach out and touch his body. My own body feels almost empty; I feel a little unsteady on my feet as we walk. I suppose I’m pretty hungry. Ben locks his phone and looks up. I feel like I can see his fat and muscles and blood through his skin, all of it glowing like a beacon.

“Sorry, yeah. I forgot to tell her I’d be out tonight,” he says now.

“Everything okay?” I ask. I look away from Ben’s face to try to distract myself from it, and watch my feet, walking, instead. I put my hands in my pockets.