. or whatever it is.As it was, the place was reasonably clean, for a change – I mean, it was dusty, a few dishes waiting in the sink, discarded copies of the Guardian all over the place. But it wasn't the pigsty I normally lived in ... probably because I'd imagined scenarios when I'd have come back here with ... well, with Debbie.However, here I now was, with May, and frankly she was now, I felt, a bit redundant: The stairs would have been a definite problem on my own but now that I was at the top of them – home, in fact – I didn't really need her anymore. What I most wanted to do was lie down on the bed and relax for a while, then get back on top of things by replying to a few messages, making a few calls, confident that I had enough food around the place not to be in danger of starving, that I was mobile enough to keep things together biological function wise. But rather than that, I found myself acting as host, doing the polite stuff that comes with the role as well as I could. Thomas and I sat down on the sofa. “So, how are you?” I asked. “OK,” he replied, “The drive was fine.” I nodded. “Work been all right?” He shrugged, “Busy as hell. Hardly had any time to relax.” Did his eyes flit to Thomas as he said that? It was hard to tell. “Did you have a nice time with Mari?” Oscar brushed non-existent lint from his trousers. “Yes. She came over and made spaghetti.” “Why did she make it? What kind of hospitality is that?” “Um,” he replied, “I messed it up, burned stuff. So she offered to help.” “And...” “And ended up making the spaghetti sauce.” “You just boiled the pasta.” He shrugged. “What a host!” There was a long pause. Oscar couldn’t look at me. His eyes were flicking to Thomas, who sat there, motionless. It was as if he was willing himself not to ask, “Who’s the naked black guy in the living room?” “And then you fucked her!” His mouth dropped open, the colour drained from his face. “You took out your little dick and you fucked my sister.” He couldn’t deny.
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