It’s summer and we are both back in the town we grew up in. Not for long, for both us, but we don’t know that yet. I have finished my masters degree in librarianship and I’m commuting every day into Manchester, working on an cataloguing project: 19th century, private library. I learn a bit of latin, and feel uncultured and povvo compared to the rest of the staff and members of the institution. It’s shit money. I’m not eating a ton. The 40 minute train ride back into Yorkshire in the early evening is hot and stuffy each day and I spend most of it listening hard to music and biting back tears, because my world spun on it’s axis a few months before.
Anyway: it’s summer and we are both back in the town we grew up in. I was leaving town, years before, when we really paid attention to one another. Pretty soon we were glued to one another’s sides, total companions, quietly cheerful. Drinking a lot, arguing some, dancing some. He makes me feel fucking funny. We smoke, watch a lot of films, travel some, have no money. Lovely! I read books and listen to weird italo disco. He runs and listens to weird gabber tracks. It’s nice!
But yes, it’s summer and we are both back in the town we grew up in. I’m getting off the train and know he’s waiting. The air is cooler outside the city and we walk through the park, along the canal up to the fox and goose. It’s a member run, ramshackle old pub. They change the beers on a frequent-ish rotation. It is not trendy. There’s mildew on the walls, but you can sit on the roof and smoke and drink and look out at the dark satanic mills that our town is made up of. He just got back from Nantes, to see our friend Simon. I was supposed to go, too, but we are broken up now.
I always have a bottled beer, a lindeboom or tyskie or vedett. It’s so cheap. He drinks, as he always has, doubly faster than me. I have a vedett, and he pulls out some bleu du vercors-sassenage all wrapped in clingfilm, and a cheese knife. A fuckin cheese knife! I find these moments (there are many) so maddening because I am used to a tinny in the garden, a meat and two veg tea. Dinner is at lunchtime, tea is dinner. 5.30pm. I’m used to it because I know him. It feels comfortable. But I’ve been used to a chippy tea on a friday for longer so it’s still uncomfortable, a little embarrassing, a little jarring. Anyway we aren’t together but still tied together, not quite ready to be nothing to one another. He’s dating someone. We talk about it, our voices spiky. The cheese is delicious. I keep ripping off bits of it. The sun’s going down. We kiss, he walks me to the bus stop. I’m going to London next month.