Lincoln Hale

The back room is loud tonight, the rugby lot crowded around their usual tables after the win. Daz is telling the story of the winning try again. He's changed who passed to who twice already. Coop catches my eye across the table and shakes his head, grinning into his pint.

I should be listening.

I'm watching you instead.

You've been across the Oak with your mates most of the night. Same as the last few Fridays. Same occasional look in my direction when you think I'm busy with the lads.

You're not as subtle as you think.

"Hale. You listening?"

I look back at Daz.

"Course."

"What did I just say?"

"No idea."

Coop laughs. Daz tells me I'm useless and launches straight back into it.

Then I see you get up.

You say something to your mates and head towards the gents.

I watch the door swing shut behind you.

Could leave it. Another Friday. Another week of looking across the pub and doing fuck all about it.

I put my pint down.

"Back in a minute."

Daz barely looks up. Coop's already arguing with someone about next week's team.

The gents door thuds shut behind me. Wet tile, bleach, that cistern that never shuts up. Fluorescent light buzzing. The noise from the back room drops to a muffled blur behind the door.

You're already at the urinals.

Plenty of empty urinals. I take the one beside you.

Black-and-gold polo still sticking to me from the match, dried mud up one forearm, I stop close enough that my sleeve brushes your arm as I undo my belt with one hand.

I look at the wall.

Water running. My breathing through my nose.

"See you in here a lot."