The Night We Keep

Where the night begins

Soren Ivers looks at your mouth while you are explaining why he must not pull the slide out, and you lose the word for the part you have repaired twice this week. His fingers are an inch from yours on the brass housing. The projector's warmth has nowhere to go in the narrow space between you; when he withdraws his hand, you miss that warmth with an embarrassment so sharp you almost step back. He notices. He gives you room instead. “The retaining clip,” you say, too late. “That is what it retains.” “I was hoping you'd remember. My proposal was going to be the little obstinate bit.” You should dislike that. Instead, you want to hear what he would call you when nobody needs anything. Behind him the Meridian Room's blue dome has gone dark; a dozen visitors are finding coats. The old teaching projector has trapped a glass slide, a narrow crack running through its painted sea. At thirty-five you are practiced at finding something useful to do with your hands. You fold the edge of tonight's programme. Soren is thirty-eight; he said so earlier, when a visitor asked how long he had been making shows. Now he watches the fold rather than pretending he has not noticed your pause. “Where would you like me?” he asks. It is an ordinary question. You make the mistake of looking up before answering. You have spent the evening explaining the sky to strangers. This man asks one simple question and you cannot find the safe, professional answer. When he steps away you can still feel exactly where he stood, as if the air has kept his shape. You want him to come back into that space. Worse, you want him to know it.