O sits next to me for a while in the cold. I can hear his teeth chattering. He asks about unreciprocated love, unrequited, he says, slurring. Tell me about it. I think about it. As I’m thinking he describes his own unrequited love. Fuck, he says. Fuck, I say, and we stare into the black hedge together. Have you told her? I ask. He has explained things so cryptically, so carefully, that for the life of me I can’t figure out who he means. Who is O in love with? I rack my brains for a while, and then realise I have spoken to him all of six times, and never for longer than three minutes. Last time he said, ‘kill me now’ on the way to the library, and I grimaced, and we formulated a plan for if everything that day went terribly wrong. Yes, he says. Then no. And finally, kind of. What do you think? he asks. I really can’t say, so we stare into the hedge some more, and smoke into the dark. I want to tell him everything I haven’t told anyone, because he is there and drunk and not looking at me. I tell him that when he is ninety it will seem exciting, and being happy a desert of boring. Fuck, he says again, and smiles. He asks about me. You’re lucky, he says, and, but of course you have doubts. Fuck, he says, it’s cold, let’s go back. Fuck me. Which is not an invitation.
Later a kiss on the forehead, a race for the door, two cigarettes staring at the stars with S. We establish Chris Martin lied; they are not yellow.
