The Lamp Left On

Gethin opened the door with a tea towel over his shoulder and asked me not to judge the smoke.

“What smoke?”

“Then we’re doing well.”

I stepped into a narrow hallway where shoes stood in an untidy pair beside a very tidy row of books. He took my coat and offered me a hook. I hung it up myself, pleased by an arrival that did not involve deciding where other people’s things should go.

“I brought nothing,” I said.

“I can see. I’m coping.”

His kitchen was at the back of the flat. There was a pot of parsley on the sill, looking much reduced since its contribution to my supper, and a roasting tin on the hob. The dark edges of the potatoes accounted for his warning.

“They’ll be crisp,” he said.

“Some of them appear to have moved beyond that.”

“Those are for structural support.”

I laughed and…