Open Water. Caleb Azumah Nelson

quicker and quicker as it approached the basket; the net making a splash when leather hits string. You wanted to smile, raising your hands in jubilance. You just wanted to feel something like joy, even if it was small.

      You just wanted to be free.

      ‘And you?’

      ‘And me?’

      ‘What was your thing?’

      ‘My thing ?’

      ‘You’re making me sound crazy. Come on. Black kid at private school? We all had a way of staying sane. Even if it was just yours.’

      She nods, appreciatively. ‘I hear that. Dancing. That was my thing. Still is.’ You feel her body ease into the sofa as she speaks. ‘When someone sees ­you – I’m just talking about day to day, you ­know – you’re either this or that. But when I’m doing my thing?’ A pause, as memory holds her, warm, thick, comforting. ‘When I’m doing my thing, I get to choose.’

      The silence is similar to whatever memory has gripped her, and you’re both content to swim in it for a moment. A distant grumble approaches and groans, like an oncoming train speeding through the station, and she asks, ‘Shall we eat?’

      The sky is darkening and it’s late afternoon. She places the last dish in the drying rack and turns off the tap. ‘Think I gotta get going soon.’

      ‘Is that all you’re wearing?’ you say, in a way you hope sounds caring, not judgemental. It’s here that you notice how tidy and slender her frame is. She’s wearing a white polo neck and a black wraparound, black tights, and arrived with only the clothes on her body.

      ‘Yeah,’ she says, looking down. ‘I’m gonna be cold, aren’t I?’

      ‘Take my hoody.’

      ‘The black one? That’s your favourite.’

      ‘Take it. You can give it back or I’ll come get it off you or whatever.’

      ‘If you’re sure?’

      ‘I’ll go grab it from my room.’

      ‘Can I come?’

      ‘Yeah.’

      ‘Can you give me a piggyback upstairs?’

      ‘Erm, sure,’ you say. You turn, bending your knees slightly. Her fingers find tender purchase in the grooves between your collarbone and shoulder blades, and she takes refuge on your back, laying her cheek across the side of your neck. Her thighs in your hands, you make the short journey with ease.

      ‘I’m not too heavy, am I?’

      You shake your head as she dismounts. She wasn’t heavy but there was a weight to her which didn’t match the lean figure you studied in your kitchen. Which is to say there was more life in your hands than you expected.

      ‘Jheeze.’ She cranes her head ninety degrees to read the spines of the towers of books on your table. Takes a perch on the edge of your bed. Her eyes dance across the titles. ‘I miss being able to read anything. I’m doing English Lit at uni,’ she adds.

      ‘Ah. Well, feel free to borrow anything.’

      ‘I’m reading this great book at the moment: The Same Earth by Kei Miller. But I’ll be back,’ she says, here and not quite. ‘Maybe,’ reaching towards the smallest stack, a pile you always return to, ‘for some Zadie.’

      ‘Good choice.’

      Bellingham station is a short walk away, and you cut through the park en route. In an enclosed area, four young men converge to play basketball on a day free of the mist and gloom spring can bring. Three are dressed for the occasion, one is not. The latter holds a tiny, yapping dog on a leash, while dispensing tips for success.

      ‘Hold it with one hand . . . nah, that one is just for support. There you go.’

      One of the other players, imbued with fresh knowledge, launches a shot skywards. The arc is nice, but as the ball spins through the air, it’s clear theory will not marry practice. The ball misses everything it can: backboard, rim, net. The young man shrugs off the teasing, gathering the ball, assuming the position, willing to try again.

      She falls into your stride as you make your usual ­journey – down the hill, through the park, along the main road of this tiny London town, complete with its Morley’s and the ­off-­licence, the Caribbean takeaway, the always empty ­pub – to the top of the small slope where the station waits.

      ‘I guess this is goodbye.’

      ‘For now,’ you say, hoping the disappointment doesn’t show. You don’t want your time together to end.

      ‘For now. I’ll see you soon. I kinda have to now,’ she says, tugging at the hoody. ‘I’ll link you before I go back to Dublin.’

      The groan escapes before you can contain it.

      ‘What?’ she asks.

      ‘That’s far.’

      ‘It is,’ she says. ‘I’ll be back, though.’ The train pulls in and she taps her Oyster card on the reader, stepping on board. You both wave as the doors close. She smiles at you as she settles into her seat, waving again. You begin to do the same, chasing after the train in pantomime fashion, spurred on by her laughter. You run and wave and laugh until the train gathers speed and the platform runs out. She escapes the frame, until it is just you on the platform, a little breathless, a little ecstatic, a little sad.