It used to be my flat, our flat. He buzzes me in and I squeeze down the hall past his bike. It feels odd not to be using a key.
He passes me a cold Bud and I perch on the sofa our child was conceived on.
We sit, silent, neither of us wanting to appear overeager. And after our life together the air just too volatile for chitchat.
“Who’s starting then?” I ask drinking deeply.
“You?” he says it nervously. I know he wants the TV.
“OK.” Realisation hits then, it’s all too laden with memories. I want nothing.